


Striving For The Light

by majestic_shriek



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:38:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majestic_shriek/pseuds/majestic_shriek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trying to fight the good fight just keeps getting more complicated. It only gets worse when Sam and Dean have to infiltrate another suspected Leviathan stronghold: a newly built holiday complex in the Poconos; lakeside cabins and all the holiday entertainment you could desire. The only thing is, it’s a couples only resort. The lines between fantasy and reality are already blurred for Sam. He can only struggle to keep up the pretence of normality for so long before he breaks for good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Striving For The Light

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to SO many wonderful people, first in helping me get this off the ground and then in shaping it and whipping it into some sort of shape. I could not have done this without you. Initial thanks to obstinatrix for continually encouraging me to get this finished and for encouraging me to write in the pretend to be a couple trope. I don't know that this is quite what you were expecting when I started out with that, but there we go! Further thanks to akadougal and vamous for beta duties and for being utterly lovely despite all my procrastination. Thanks must also go to the lovely mods of the community, first for running the whole event, and second for allowing me to post late, whoops. And finally, huge thanks to my lovely artist, jennybliss, who was patient and understanding and has produced some amazing banners, which I adore, and really fit the images I had in my head of this story. Go and check it out, it's awesome!
> 
> Check out the art [ here on AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/458244) or [ here on LJ ](http://blissfulthings.livejournal.com/5392.html)

  


Dean knows, really - knows deep down that Sammy isn’t as healthy in the head as he makes out. For all Sam’s protestations of “I’m fine, Dean-,” “I’m dealing with it, Dean-,” “Why don’t you take a look at yourself, Dean?” - that last after a particularly harrowing day of tailing a fucking evil griffin, of all things, followed by being thrown against a wall, hurled around like a puppet and generally made to feel completely and utterly _shit_. Well, if Dean had turned rather heavily to the flask nestled in his jacket pocket on that occasion, who was to blame him. 

Dean certainly doesn’t think about the fact that they’d rushed into that hunt on too little information, relying on the scant amount they’d scrounged up from the records. They’d lifted the method for dealing with the damned creature from some, Dean wasn’t even sure, some sort of mystical creature fansite or other, which claimed that griffins could be taken down using an iron blade, blessed with rosemary and dipped in lamb’s blood.

They couldn’t.

Fair enough, the information had _sounded_ legit enough, but the fact remained that they were flying solo here. They couldn’t just pick up the phone and find out answers. Dean’s fingers had hovered over the call button more times than he could count, screen flashing “Bobby” dimly back at him. He’d not pressed it yet. If he did, then when Bobby didn’t answer, it would be even more real.

Dean can’t handle any more reality. 

Sometimes, he doesn’t think he even wants to be part of it anymore.

  


Dean sighs, and curls his fingers around the cold metal containing another gulp of amber liquid. Sam is looking at him and he knows Sam is judging him, even though he says nothing. He can feel the condemnation radiating off him, tempered with acceptance - the resignation that this is Dean and that there’s not much Sam can do about it anyway. He tries, Dean knows; tries to hide away the shit that’s happening inside his head, but somehow, that’s worse.

Dean drinks, a long pull, and feels the burn of the alcohol as it slides down his throat. It settles, deep in his gut, and he follows it with another pull on his flask, chasing the rough sensation over and over. It burns, it caresses. He can almost feel it slipping into his blood these days, the thick warmth seeping into every part of his body. He welcomes it, relishes it, seeks it out.

It’s better than thinking about the shit Sam’s going through. It’s better than thinking about the shit Sam went through.

It’s better than thinking about Bobby. It’s better than thinking about Castiel. It’s better than thinking about everyone who’s been lost.

It’s better than thinking that perhaps, perhaps, if he’d just tried harder, if he’d said yes, if he’d done something differently, whatever it might have been -- it’s better than thinking that perhaps he could have saved them all.

It’s better than remembering, over and over, the fact that he’s failed, and continues to fail.

Sometimes, Sam reaches out and takes the flask from him. He doesn’t say anything when he does it, just silently disengages the container from Dean’s fingers and puts it further away. Dean doesn’t say anything either, just turns away, or rolls over, or curls up against the window of whatever piece of crap they’re driving that day, fucking Leviathans, and lets the world flow past him. 

Numbed, that’s a good word for it. It numbs him. It makes living a little more bearable. It numbs the reality.

  


It’s been five days since they managed to take down the griffin. Good old decapitation did it in the end, and Sam meticulously notes down this new information as Dean speeds down the highway to god knows where. He wants to ask “what’s the point?” - what’s the fucking point in Sam’s carefully detailed neat print, what’s the point when the Leviathans are going to fuck everything to, well, Purgatory and back and there doesn't seem to be a damned thing they can do about it? What is the fucking point?

He doesn’t ask. He just stares ahead at the long stretch of empty road in front of them, arrow straight to the horizon. He’s not entirely sure where they’re going. It doesn’t really matter. He doesn’t care - anywhere will do.

  


Sam sees. He sees more than Dean realises, certainly. He’s gotten pretty good at reading his brother over the years; knowing what Dean’s thinking, how he’s hiding under all his acting and bluster, but lately, Dean’s been more detached than usual. Sam knows he’s hurting, that he’s barely coping underneath, and Sam knows that Dean knows that Sam is far from okay.

They don’t talk about it.

Sam sees the scratched line of ink across the page, roughly spilling from the pen. It’s not the best pen to be writing on the thick paper of the journal, but it’s the only one he could find, scrounged up from somewhere deep in the footwell of this car, along with who knows what else. Sam sees the words he writes, information, carefully ordered and meticulous against the backdrop of chaos and mayhem that surrounds their world.

Sam sees the world fly past their windows as Dean speeds along the open road. Sam sees small gas stations and roadside diners and nowhere towns and they pass them all.

Sam sees Lucifer, sitting astride everything. He’s there on the page, mocking Sam’s words. He’s here in the car, commenting lazily on the landscape as it passes. He’s here, sitting behind Dean’s shoulder, breathing softly onto his neck and Sam wants to lunge out, push him away from Dean because _no_! Dean, Dean is safe. Lucifer can mess with him, but he needs to stay away from Dean.

Some days, he’s there all the time. More often than not, if Sam is honest. It’s becoming more frequent, and Sam feels powerless to stop it. His scar has healed; pressing against it merely recalls a memory now, it brings no pain to anchor him to the real world. He should tell Dean, Sam knows. “Make this your first stone, and build on it,” Dean had said, but right now, it feels like all the cement is crumbling away, and the stones are balancing precariously. They’ll topple soon. Sam doesn’t like to think about that too much. His first stone, Dean, is there, at least.

“Dean-,” he starts, and Dean inclines his head towards him, eyes drifting from the road.

“Yeah, Sammy?” Dean says, when Sam finds he can’t actually think of what he wanted to say, or how he wanted to say it.

“We stopping soon?” he asks instead.

Dean stares at him for a long moment. “Yeah-,” he responds finally, “- probably about time. Think the next town’s about thirty miles. We’ll stop there, get some rest.”

_Where are we going?_ , Sam doesn’t ask, just nods and settles back to completing his drawing of the griffin, ignoring Lucifer’s increasingly unhelpful commentary.

  


They stop, as Dean had predicted, about thirty miles up the highway, at the Little Jolly Ranch Motel in some nowhere town in the middle of nothingness that Sam didn’t manage to catch the name of. It doesn’t matter anyway; each place is more or less the same these days, another stop on the long road to, well. There’s the big question. The long road to what? Sam asks himself the question sometimes, draws theories and ideas around themselves on the page: is the apocalypse coming again; are he and Dean safe; will the angels ever be back for them; are the Leviathan’s going to destroy the world in a haze of black spray and oblivion? He doesn’t have any answers, and Lucifer laughs at him, tells him it’s not real anyway, any of this, wasn’t he listening, he’s still in the cage there, with Lucifer and oh, Michael’s in a bad mood today, uh-oh, better watch out, Sam-buddy, because Michael’s gonna wanna play, and he’s not always as considerate as Lucifer, you know, because he looks out for you, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal, and he just wants you to be happy, and really, this is all for you, Sam, sorry it’s not the white picket fence, but this _is_ hell, after all.

He never shuts up.

Sam tries to tune it out; succeeds, some of the time, but even when Lucifer’s not there, actually there, his image in front of him, his words are there in Sam’s head. They never go away, not really. 

Sam waits in the car while Dean goes and gets them a room; it’s easier that way, especially these days. One of them can just about pass unnoticed, maybe a little sideways glance from people when they remember seeing their faces on the TV news, emblazoned with “dangerous” and “armed,” but put the two of them together and suddenly there’s a need to come up with explanations and excuses and it’s just too complicated. It’s easier, sometimes, to just take the easiest route. 

They pay cash these days as well, hustled by Dean at some dive bar in the early hours. Cards are too risky. It’s hard enough to stay hidden from the Leviathans without making it easier for them by broadcasting their whereabouts via fraudulent credit cards. Sam asked Dean why they just couldn’t make new cards, new aliases, and Dean had frowned and bitten out, “just ‘cause, Sammy, just ‘cause,” and then he’d gone all silent and brooding so Sam had dropped it. 

It’s a treat, really, staying at this motel, much as Sam can’t really bring himself to believe that as he unfolds his legs out of the car when he sees Dean wave him over towards a room. Usually, there’s a run down house somewhere, or an empty house for sale, and they make do with that. Sometimes, there isn’t even that, and there’s no cash, so they sleep in the car. Sam’s used to that - years of curling up on the back seat of the Impala as Dad whisked them around the country, but these cars aren’t the Impala, and it’s different, not right, and it doesn’t always feel safe. Sometimes, Dean sleeps in the back seat with him, when there’s not enough room for him to sleep up front, he says, and both of them curl up uncomfortably, Sam trying to stretch out a bit, resting his head on Dean’s thigh, and Dean leaning up against the rear windows. Dean says it’s because there’s not enough room for him to sleep properly in some of these cars, but Sam suspects otherwise, and he’s not complaining, anyway. The nights when they have to sleep in the car and he has the warm secure weight of Dean around him are the nights when he sleeps the best.

That’s another big question, but Sam hasn’t drawn that one out in the journal.

This motel is no different to the multitude they’ve passed through before - two beds, gaudy coverlets, clashing wallpaper, some weird kind of kitsch dolphin theme in the handful of ornaments and pictures. When he was a kid, Sam used to keep mental notes of the weird themes in motels. He stopped, somewhere along the line, but this is certainly not the first dolphin room they’ve stayed in. 

“It’ll do,” Dean says, and he chucks his holdall down on the nearest bed, flops down beside it. He closes his eyes, and for a minute, Sam thinks he’s going to fall asleep, but a moment later, Dean sits up again, rubs his eyes, and looks over at Sam, who’s still standing there next to the door. “You gonna stand there all day, bro?”

Sam shakes his head slowly, heads over to his bed, and dumps his bag. “What’s next?” he says, more for something to say than because he thinks they’re actually going to have a plan or manage to do something.

“We wait,” Dean replies, and he rubs his eyes again, tired movements over tired lines. Sam can see every issue, every hard thing they’ve faced in the lines around Dean’s features. He’s studied those as well since he was a child, mapping the changes in Dean’s face as he grew, matured. When Sam left for Stanford, he had a perfect picture of his brother painted out in his mind, and sometimes he’d find his mind drifting there, to the image of Dean etched in his memories. When Dean reappeared after all those years, his face was so familiar but there were new lines there where there weren’t before. There was a small scar near Dean’s left ear, small, almost imperceptible, but Sam saw it instantly, saw the new patterns in his -- his Dean’s face.

Sam admits, or allows himself to admit, these days, that he is Dean’s and Dean is his. He doesn’t always think that in the way people might see it, if he said that statement to anyone else. Certainly Dean doesn’t see it in any other way than he has to look out for his little brother - Sam is his to look after and no one else’s, that’s for certain. There was a time, once, when Sam thought that he could leave again, go and live a normal life and be happy and adjusted and all of those things that now he’ll never see. He doesn’t kid himself any more. There’s no point pretending that it’s going to happen, or that it might happen or anything. He’s accepted that. 

“Wait for what?” Sam bites out, and it’s harsher than he intends it to be. Dean looks at him, and Sam regrets his tone almost instantly. 

“I don’t fucking know, Sam,” Dean shoots back, and Sam can feel the frustration rolling off his every word. “I don’t fucking know. We wait for something to happen, for the world to fucking explode around us and we fight a losing war, I don’t fucking know, Sam, okay? So just -- shut up for a while, okay?”

Sam nods, silently, finally goes and sits down on his bed. He doesn’t say any more. He thinks about turning the TV on for a moment, but decides against it. Dean’s back is turned from him; he’s curled up with his guns, cleaning them over and over. He’s got his pistol, his favourite one, and Sam can hear him taking it apart piece by piece, slotting it back together once, twice, again and then again - more times than Sam can count.

Sam takes out the journal from his holdall, and turns to the pages where he’s been drawing what he sees. They’re all dark, jagged shadows, drawn in the blue or black ballpoint that Sam carries around, but he can see in his mind where the blood drips from the corners, or from the sharp edges of the broken walls that he’s drawn on the paper. Sam doesn’t know if he should stop drawing what he sees in his nightmares, if perhaps having a record of it makes it worse, but it helps, sometimes; helps to calm him down, helps Lucifer not to appear as often, or as strongly.

He flicks through the blackened pages until he falls asleep.

  


Dean wakes up the next morning before Sam, slips into the shower and has a quick shave. Sam’s still snoring softly when Dean re-emerges, and Dean takes a moment to glance over his recumbent form. Sometimes he can’t believe that he’s got his brother, whole and alive, breathing, next to him again, after everything they’ve been through. And sometimes he can’t believe that Sam’s still got to live through all this fucking shit and Dean can’t protect him against it, no matter how much he tries. Dean thinks that Sam would have been better off dead, because then he wouldn’t have to deal with this, his mind wouldn’t be cracked and broken, fighting off Lucifer every hour of the day. No matter which way he looks at it though, it’s obvious to Dean that he has been a complete failure at looking after his brother. In the darker moments, which totally aren’t increasing, Dean thinks about leaving, thinks about ending it all. He looks over at Sammy, sleeping peacefully, arm curled around the journal, and this time, he can’t. His gun is right there on his bed, loaded, action smooth, and it would be so easy to just reach over, pull the trigger once, twice, then…darkness.

Dean takes a moment to soak up the sight of his sleeping brother. He looks peaceful, laid out there on the comforter, all long limbs and gangly strength, and Dean wishes he could let him sleep on. The tiredness in Sam’s eyes is becoming more evident, the extra coffee Sam picks up from the gas stations they pull into en route. Dean wishes he could leave him be, let this sleeping peacefulness wash over Sammy and cure all ills, but he has to wake Sam up. They have to check out of the motel and get going. Can’t stay too long at a place like this, even using new aliases - not now, the risks are too great, but Dean is tempted just to sit there and wait for whatever is coming at them to just fucking hit them and get it over with already.

He grabs his flask, swills down a morning chaser, and blinks, shaking his head to clear the remaining sleep and fog and resignation that the shower just couldn’t wash away. Sam snores, a muffled little whine, and Dean knows that one, knowledge gained through the collection of a million nights watching his little brother sleep - protect your brother, Dean - cataloguing what sounds meant Sam was sleeping soundly, what sounds meant he was on the verge of waking up, and what sounds meant something was troubling him. This one, the twinge of a whimper, that one meant nightmares of some sort. When Sam was little, after he’d found out what Dad did and what Dean was protecting him from, he’d had nightmares. He’d sworn blind that he hadn’t - he wasn’t scared, he was just as brave as Dean! - but Dean knew better - the little sleepy moans, and the tossing under the covers and the way Sam would sometimes jolt awake, sweaty and disorientated, before he tried to go back to sleep without a sound. Dean let a lot of them pass, just listening and watching the dark shadow of his brother in their rooms. Sometimes though, the terrors would be worse, and Dean would slip out from under his covers, and paste his hand over Sammy’s arm. He’d sit there, on the floor by Sam’s bed, and he’d keep his hand there - a gentle, comforting presence, until Sam would calm. Even then, Dean would always stay, and he’d fall asleep half leant against the bed and wake up in the morning with a weird crick in his neck, Sam’s questioning eyes and more often than not, Dad’s. They were harder to read. Judgement? Approval? Dean had never quite figured it out. 

There had been a few occasions where they’d had to share a bed. Sammy never had nightmares then.

Dean sighs, and crosses the short space to the side of Sam’s bed. He places his hand on Sam’s arm, gently, in the old familiar place. “Sam.”

Sam doesn’t respond straight away, but his sleep sounds cease, and Dean strokes his hand along Sam’s arm, up to the sleeve of his sleep t-shirt. “Sam,” he says again, a bit louder this time, and he shakes his shoulder gently. “Sam, c’mon, dude, s’time to go.” 

Sam mumbles, and Dean wishes he could just pat his shoulder, and leave him to sleep on. One day there will be all the time in the world to sleep. “Sam,” he repeats, more forcefully, and Sam jolts awake, alert, well trained. Dean lets his hand drop. “Time to go.” He stands, and heads back to his bed, stuffing his last few things into his duffel. “Sorry, bro, but there’s no time for a shower. We’ve got to get moving.”

“Fine, whatever,” mumbles Sam, as he shuffles into the bathroom.

“I mean it,” Dean calls back, as the door closes. “I will leave your ass here if you’re not out and ready in ten.” There’s no reply, but the tap turns on and Dean’s fairly satisfied that Sam’ll be ready soon. He sits back down on the bed, which creaks ominously. _S’good thing there were no extra-curricular activities going on,_ Dean thinks, but then he remembers the last time he had sex and how well that went, and he takes another pull on his hip flask. Fucking everything.

  


Sam doesn’t shower, but he splashes his face with cold water, brushes his teeth and then he just looks at himself in the mirror. He’s tired, he can see that, the black shadows under his eyes, but Lucifer just doesn’t _shut up_ and he’s somehow worse when Sam’s sleeping. He’s got a free run of Sam’s unconscious mind then. His imagination can run riot. Sam itches to draw last nights events out of his head and onto the page, get them out get them gone get them somewhere else. He’ll have to wait until Dean’s lost interest in worrying about him for a moment and is instead focused on the road ahead of them.

Sam rubs his hand sleepily across his eyes, and yawns. 

_That was a good night,_ says Lucifer, smiling, perched on the edge of the chipped bath tub. _I really enjoyed that, Sam, one of the best ones yet. We really must do that again sometime. I bet I could get even better. We could go even longer, how about that, Sam?_

Sam ignores him, wets his toothbrush, and stares straight ahead. It isn’t real, it’s not real, he’s not there.

_C’mon Sam, talk to me. Sam. C’mon, ol’ buddy, you can’t ignore me after a night like last night, can you?_ Lucifer hops down from the bath, hovers behind Sam’s shoulder. _I thought you were a gentleman, Sam, had you down for one of the good guys. I’m disappointed. I’m sad, Sam. I thought we had something special, you and I. I can provide for you, after all, what you can’t get elsewhere._

Shut up, Sam thinks, shut up shut up shut up, but Lucifer doesn’t listen. He never listens. 

_His hand was there when we woke up,_ Lucifer continues, undaunted by Sam’s silence. _Wasn’t that sweet? It was nice too, I bet, the way his hand moved up your arm like that. I could do that for you, Sam. Would you like that? I just want you to be happy._

Sam wants him to shut up to go away to leave him alone. He digs his fingers into the scar on his hand, and Lucifer laughs lightly in the background. Sam closes his eyes. The scar hasn’t worked for days now, it’s healed - still shiny pink, but healed - and no matter how much he presses down onto it, Lucifer just stands there, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. 

“Fuck,” Sam says, and he splashes cold water onto his face again, and then again, and again. “Fuck.”

  


In the end, Sam doesn’t take all that long, and Dean piles them back into the piece of crap car and pulls out of the parking lot.

He heads north, for lack of a better direction.

They’ve been driving for a couple of hours, just driving, cruising past Podunk and Bumfuck and other no horse towns in the middle of nowhere, and Sam’s head’s just beginning to droop forwards, when Dean’s phone rings. Sam nearly jumps out of his skin, and Dean muffles a curse and presses the phone against his ear.

“Yeah,” he answers. “Hey, Frank, what’s new? No, yeah, I fucking, I know, Frank, just...have you got anything on Dick?” There’s a silence, and then Dean’s face twists into a grimace before his eyes open almost comically wide. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. No, I know, you wouldn’t tell...yeah, I got that, Frank --” Dean glances over at Sam and rolls his eyes. Sam perks up and looks questioningly over at Dean. “--yeah, no, yeah. Okay, shutting up.” He goes silent, just nodding once or twice, or gesticulating wildly in a manner that were they in the Impala Dean wouldn’t dare try to pull off, but in this heap o’junk anything goes. He nods a couple more times. “Where’d you say again?” he asks, miming a paper and pen at Sam, who fumbles about with the glove box. “Philly, got it. Alright, thanks, Frank, we’re headed there now. Keep us pos--” Dean sighs, throws the phone down again. “Bastard hung up on me.”

Sam’s silent, and Dean’s almost thrown by the lack of response - usually Sam’s at least looking at him, question in his raised eyebrow, but this time Sam’s just staring out at the road ahead of them and there’s nothing in his eyes at all. Nothing that Dean can see, anyway.

“Sam,” he says, and Sam turns to him with a jerk, blinking rapidly. “Frank thinks he might have something. He’s not sure, but there’s been a couple of suspicious sounding deaths down in the Poconos and guess what?” Sam shrugs, and Dean plows on, “Turns out, right around that area, there’s a new holiday apartment complex or some shit like that being developed.”

“Your point being?” Sam asks, and Dean has to fight to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

“A holiday complex owned by Luxury Holiday Developments.” Dean pauses, but the dramatic effect is wasted on his brother. “Which is a subsidiary of Travel Corp, an offshoot of Acta Holdings, which, c’mon, you must have guessed it, all falls under the fucking huge umbrella that is Dick Roman Industries.” He grins over at Sam, but his smile is not returned.

“Fine, great, whatever, Dean,” Sam replies instead, and Dean frowns. Sam catches the look and continues, “I mean, it’s great that we’ve got this intel on them, Dean, it really is, but what are we meant to do with it? We don’t know what their big plan is, we don’t know how many of them are at this holiday place and we’re not exactly adept at bringing them down.”

“We’ve got a fucking method, Sam, that’s more than nothing,” Dean argues, slamming his hand down on the wheel.

“I just...Dean,” Sam sighs, and he brushes his bangs out of his eyes with his fingers. “Dean, I get why this is so important to you --” Dean snorts -- “and I know you want to get Dick Roman, I do. Hell, I want him gone as much as you, Dean, but we can’t just rush into this. Blindly leaping at every scrap of Leviathan info that comes our way isn’t gonna bring him back, Dean, or get you any closer to Dick. All it’s gonna fucking do is get us both killed.”

Fucking dammit, Sam speaks sense, and Dean knows it, but it’s a matter of fucking principle. “I’m not talking about this right now, you’re in a fucking prissy-ass mood,” Dean shoots at his brother, and promptly turns the radio up high. It’s some shit song playing, but Dean doesn’t care. The point is clear enough; no more talk about this.

Sam doesn’t seem to catch the hint, despite having years worth of experience dealing with Dean. “I’m in a fucking prissy-ass mood?” he counters, raising his voice, “I’m not the one who obsesses over every scrap of info we get on Dick and then sets out to get ourselves killed!”

“What else do you want me to fucking do, Sam? I’m not going to sit around and do nothing, wait for them to come to us.”

“Use a little common sense, that’s what! Think before rushing into these things.” Sam sighs and softens his voice. “It’s not healthy, Dean.”

Dean isn’t in the mood. “Yeah, ‘cause having Lucifer riding shotgun in your grapefruit is the pinnacle of fucking health and sanity,” he spits out, instantly regretting it when he sees the way Sam freezes, before his face twists, first angry and then into something carefully blank.

“Fuck you,” Sam says, and turns away and stares out of the side window.

Fuck.

  


He hadn’t meant to snap at Dean like that, but Sam didn’t always feel entirely in control these days. He was keeping a tenuous link on his own reality, on the physical certainty of his brother and the world surrounding him, but Lucifer was talking more and more and he was getting really insistent - and exceedingly petulant. It was akin to having a small child whining and craving attention twenty-four hours a day, and still he would _not shut up._

Sam scratches a deep ballpoint pen line through the clean white sheet of paper in front of him, running over it angrily until it tears through the page. Dean was out somewhere; they’d arrived at another town, another motel (another luxury, another risk) and Dean had thrown his duffel down on his bed and immediately stalked out of the room, slamming the door without a word to Sam.

Sam scratches another line, thinner, more spidery this time. Lucifer likes to draw webs from his fingertips, and gather them around the corners of Sam’s vision, thicker and thicker until they engulfed everything and Sam was trapped in a sticky web with nowhere to escape from Lucifer’s demands. It didn’t happen very often when he was awake, thankfully, and now, sleeping less and less, the dreams were fewer, but more intense. Sam didn’t know which was worse.

He focuses on the webs on the page, gossamer ink lines threading through his dreams and nightmares. _They’re just my imagination. They’re not real, they’re not there. Look at them on the page; the ones in my head are the same as this, just images, not real, they’re not real._ Sam practices mantras like this regularly, flicking through the pages of his drawings - _notrealnotrealnotrealnotreal._

_Pretty though,_ says Lucifer, appearing at Sam’s shoulder - the devil on it, thinks Sam, with a wry smile that doesn’t reach his face. _You’ve really captured the delicacy and instantness of those -- oh, c’mon Sam, talk to me. It’ll be better, I promise. No? You will, eventually, I know it Sam, ‘cause I know yoooooou,_ Lucifer sing-songs. _Where’s our darling Dean? Not gone out and left you all alone, has he? What an irresponsible big brother he is, leaving you here like this, with just me for company. You had an argument, I bet. What d’you say I make it better? I know..._

He flickers for an instant in Sam’s vision, before reappearing, but this time he’s draped in Dean’s form, wearing the familiar smile, wearing the same clothes. It’s not Dean, thinks Sam, closing his eyes. It’s not real. 

_Sammy,_ lilts Lucifer, in Dean’s voice, _c’mon Sammy, it’s me, Dean._

It's not real, Sam thinks, stroking the scar on his hand. It's not real, it's not real. Lucifer's still there though, standing there wearing Dean's face and Dean's expressions and using Dean's voice, and Sam just wants him to be gone. Coping when he does this is even harder, discerning what's real and what's not and what he needs to focus on - with Lucifer - Dean - Lucifer in front of him, Sam just can't do it.

He picks up the pen before he even realises what he's doing. He doesn't even think about what he's going to do - it's not a thought that registers through his mind, but the nib of the pen is there, pressing against the skin on his arm, and he pushes harder. It hurts, just this dull pressure at first, but he's still pushing, and he knows he shouldn't, but he can't seem to stop it. The blunt tip of the pen doesn't break the skin easily, but when it does, sliding through, the pain twists into a different sort, sharp and harsh.

Lucifer - Dean - Lucifer flickers and fades.

Sam breathes in a rough sigh of relief, and then looks down at his arm. It's bleeding slightly, and it hurts. He pulls the pen free carefully, and studies the small round wound. Nothing too serious. Nothing that will make Dean suspicious. He gets up, heads for the bathroom and presses a wad of paper against the cut. It'll heal up, Dean'll hardly notice. And if he does, well, Sam just happened to catch his arm on a nail or something. Could have happened to anyone.

He sits down again, and drops his head to the table, exhausted. It shouldn't be this fucking difficult. It wasn't meant to be this hard.

  


Dean comes back eventually, like he always does, without a word to Sam about why he vanished or what he ended up doing, but Sam has a fairly good idea. He can smell it the minute Dean walks into the room.

Dean crashes that night, flat out on top of the covers, and when he wakes in the morning light, Sam's already up and sat looking at the laptop screen.

"Mornin'" he says, getting a groan in response. "There's coffee in the pot."

Dean groans again, but he stumbles upright and drags himself into the kitchenette, pouring himself a cup of the strong, black brew. "So," he begins, before trailing off into silence.

"So," agrees Sam, and he waits for Dean to finish.

"About this whole thing that Frank uncovered," Sam nods, and Dean continues hastily, "I mean, I'm not giving it up, Sam, but, alright, fair enough, we'll look into it a bit more before we head in. Or I head in, or whatever."

"You're not going alone," Sam replies, and Dean looks down at his feet.

"Yeah, but, y'know. You're kinda right. Not totally, mind, but kinda."

Sam nods, satisfied for now. "Okay then. So, research. What have we got?"

"Frank said there's some sort of new holiday development being built out in the Poconos, Philadelphia, people buying up land, selling, getting out fast - nothing totally out of the ordinary, but couple it with the deaths, and it starts looking kinda suspicious. So, Frank looks into it a bit more, and like I said, Shady Trees Developments are basically owned and run by Roman Industries."

"So, there's that," agrees Sam, but Dean hasn't finished.

"Yeah, but not just that. Frank tried to access some of the more...internal files about this place, and every single one of them was locked down tight, and I mean tight. For some place that's just a holiday village, that's suspicious, right? People are dying there, Sam. More people than is normal, the sort of deaths that we look into." 

“I guess,” Sam says, and Dean looks far too pleased. 

“That’s settled then,” he says, and he turns towards the laptop before Sam can even voice another objection. Sam opens and closes his mouth, and Dean can see the small shrug of his shoulders, and he knows he’s won this one.

  


Sam looks back over the webpages Dean had directed him to. They’re all about Luxury Holiday Developments, one about the whole company, another about the holiday park in question. There are a couple of online news articles about the deaths in the area as well, and Sam reads back over them, scanning for any details he might have missed on his last read.

  
**Popular local archivist dies; police treating the death as suspicious**  


Mia Delante, an archivist at the University of Philadelphia Library, was found dead last night. Ms. Delante, 38, had been reported missing three days ago, and had been the subject of a police search, but the discovery of a body yesterday ended any hope of a happy ending to this story. Ms. Delante was a popular and friendly local resident, and in addition to her archive work at the university, Ms. Delante had been involved in a number of charitable schemes. She was also involved with the local Town Fellowship Trust, who work to preserve the historic and cultural heritage of the Poconos Recently, Ms. Delante, as part of the Trust, formed part of a group protesting against the building of a new holiday development on a site of historical significance. Although the development expects to bring a wide variety of benefits to the town including increased tourism and up to 100 new jobs, the location of the development has always been hotly contested. 

Police released a statement in which they informed the press that the body of Mia Delante had been found, and that they were treating the death as suspicious. A full post-mortem is underway, but initial reports suggest that Ms. Delante met a horrific end. A witness to the discovery of the body informed our reporter that Ms. Delante’s heart seemed to have been “ripped out of her chest, and there were cuts and tears everywhere.” We can only hope that this cruel killer is brought to justice as soon as possible.

Ms. Delante’s family have been informed. Anyone with any further information relating to her death should contact Poconos County Sheriff’s Department on 247235732

~~

  
**Mysterious Death Baffles Police**  


Police have revealed details regarding the body of a man found yesterday near the grounds of a new holiday development. The man, who has been identified as Eric Blant, a 43 year old groundsman at the Shady Trees Holiday Complex, was discovered yesterday by a local dog walker, who refused to comment on his experience.

Police would not comment further on the details of the crime, but they did inform press that they were treating the death as suspicious, and appealed for anyone with any information to contact them. 

A spokesman for the Sheriff’s Department, when asked if they believed this death had any connections to the recent passing of Ms. Mia Delante in similar circumstances, said that “at present we are treating both cases separately. There is nothing that connects the two cases.” However, rumours of similar causes of death have caused questions to be raised about the veracity of this statement. 

Shady Trees, when approached, expressed their deep regret at the passing of Mr. Blant, but refused to comment further. 

Sam can see Dean’s point - it is suspicious. Both Mia Delante and Eric Blant had connections to Luxury Holiday Developments, and their deaths pointed towards some possible supernatural creature, including Leviathan.

Sam sighs and minimises those pages, concentrating instead on the ones about Luxury Holiday Developments. Dean’s plan seemed to consist of going and staying there; pretending they were on some sort of holiday. It was -- well, it was almost unthinkable, these days, a holiday with Dean. It was the kind of thing, years ago, that Sam used to think about, used to look forward to. Those moments when Dean would just turn the car towards the destination - we’re going to a concert, Sammy; thought we could use a break, Sam; got us tickets for that show you wanted to see, girly ass show, but what the heck, I could use a laugh; one day we’ll head out to the Grand Canyon, Sam, one day we’ll see everything, I’ll take you there. Back when they were even younger, Dean used to chatter to Sam in the back of the car whilst Dad drove, keeping Sam occupied, telling him all the places they were going to go when they grew up, all the places Dean was going to take Sam, everywhere that Sam and Dean were going to go together.

And then things had changed.

Now, Sam thinks, I can’t see much past Lucifer, and Dean can’t see much beyond the bottle and his despair. Fucked up. That’s what it is. Fucked up.

There was never going to be a holiday, not like they planned. Sam had drawn pictures even then, crude little crayon sketches of what he imagined all those grand places to look like. Now his pictures were dark, etched, scratched in blood and pain. He was coping though, he was getting through. 

Sam skims down the pages, barely reading all the generic information – blah, blah ultimate in holiday rest and relaxation blah, blah, blah same old same old -- when two words leap out at him.

Couples only.

He rereads the page, slower this time.

Couples only.

Shady Trees Holiday Development was for couples only.

  


“Dean,” Sam says, when Dean emerges, dripping from the shower, towel wrapped loosely round his waist. Dean was looking different these days - Sam can’t quite put his finger on it _(Oh, but wouldn’t you like to, Sam, you could just reach out and touch him)_. Maybe he’d been working out more; or it was the alcohol; or it was just age; or all of the above. Sam knows he probably wasn’t looking all that hot recently. It was harder and harder to get to sleep.

“Yeah,” Dean replies, grabbing another towel and rubbing roughly at his hair.

“This...well, Shady Trees Holiday Developments, you know your plan?”

“Yes, Sam?” Dean says, with a sigh that Sam can very easily interpret as ‘what the fuck now, Sam?’

“Well, you do know that it’s a couples only resort, right?”

Dean is silent for a moment before he breathes out. “Yeah, I knew.”

Sam waits, but nothing more is forthcoming. “...So...”

Dean shrugs, and flings the towel around his shoulders. “So nothing, Sam. We go in, we do the job.”

“But we’re not a couple,” Sam says, and he doesn’t mean it to sound like a whine, but it does, and then it echoes back in his ears as Lucifer mimics it back at him. 

“Well observed,” says Dean, drily, pulling a clean(ish) shirt from his duffel. “We’ll act, Sam. I mean, we just have to smile at each other and I don’t know, hold hands twice or some shit like that. It’s nothing big.”

It is, Sam wants to say, but the words catch in his throat. It’s not that easy, it’s not that clean-cut, you can’t go changing everything, you can’t go changing the rules, you have to remain constant, Dean, you have to remain the same, the stone that everything is built on, you can’t be...you can’t be like him.

He doesn’t say them.

“Oh,” he says instead, quietly. Dean turns towards him, and his expression softens. He’s holding a pair of boxers in his hands, so the effect isn’t perfect.

“I mean, that’ll be okay, Sam? We’ll get a two room place, they have them, I saw - and you can have your own space for a bit, and I won’t have to put up with your snoring, and we’ll just have to put on the pretence a bit, and once we know what’s going on and if we can stop it, we will and we’ll get the hell out. Done, quick and simple.”

“Sure,” says Sam, with a weak smile, and Dean grins back at him. “Sure.” Sure. Sure, I don’t want my own space, I don’t want to go to sleep not knowing you’re right there in the bed next to mine, I don’t -- “It’s fine. It’s a good plan.”

Dean’s shimmied on the boxers under the towel now and he’s pulling on his pair of least stained jeans. They’re going to have to do laundry again soon. “I’ll get it booked,” he says. “Frank’s found a way of paying for it or putting down a deposit or something that won’t tie it to us at all. So, we’ll just...lie as low as possible.”

“Sure,” Sam repeats.

  


The drive to Shady Trees had been pretty uneventful, all things considered. Sam had been quiet, not batting an eyelid at the choice of music or the volume, and had instead engrossed himself in the journal whenever he thought Dean wasn’t looking. But he was, because Dean always had Sam in the corner of his vision, years of habit, years of practice. He didn’t say anything; Sam had always had something to keep him occupied in the car - school books, homework, class projects that were never going to be handed in and marked, drawings. Dean had been content to sit and watch the country fly past, or watch his Dad up in the front seat, or chat with Sam if Sammy needed it, but Sam had always needed something there.

Towards the tail end of the drive, Sam’s eyelids start drooping, and Dean smiles and lowers the volume on the cassette player. The pen slips from Sam’s hand, and he’s asleep, and Dean glances over at the open journal on Sam’s lap.

It’s dark and angry and twisted and sharp lines and Dean can’t make out anything coherent.  
He turns his attention back to the road, but the dark scrawls are playing on his mind, dancing across his vision, and he risks another glance over; the road ahead is empty, and he’s in control.

“Shit, Sam,” he breathes, and he tries to figure out what it is, what Sam’s drawing, but he can’t. It’s a mass of shapes and points and it doesn’t make sense, and Dean doesn’t even want to start thinking about what that means.

He only stares at the road ahead until they reach their destination. He doesn’t even really register what song’s playing.

Sam snuffles awake when they arrive, and jolts upright, slamming the journal shut on reflex, and Dean doesn’t say anything. “We’re here,” he says instead, and Sam nods, and eases himself out of the car, stretching out his limbs slowly, and they’ve got to be aching ‘cause there’s not much room in this little box.

Dean slides out of the driver’s side, and hefts open the trunk, grabbing both their bags and slinging them over his shoulders. He wanders around the car, and bumps his shoulder against Sam’s. They’ve only just arrived, but he’s not sure who’s watching, and if they’re making out they’re a couple, they’ve got to do it right from the start. Sam flinches, and Dean can feel him stiffen up for a moment before he relaxes, and that’s kinda confusing. Dean knows he’s not the most touchy-feely guy in the world, but he and Sam live out of each other’s pockets, and a shoulder bump? That’s nothing. He can’t understand why Sam reacted like that, but Dean shoves the thought aside - it’s probably nothing, Sam’s just tired, it’s been a long drive, Sam’s been through a lot.

There’s a sign stating “WELCOME” in big fancy green letters and an arrow pointing towards a small tidy looking building. “Please check in at reception,” the sign continues in a smaller print. It all looks very neat and unsuspicious. Dean’s guard is up already.

Sam’s following him as he heads towards the office, and he’s all but caught up by the time Dean pushes the door, which opens with the light jingle of a bell, signalling their arrival. A moment later, an incredibly smiley woman appears from a small room behind the counter.

“Welcome to Shady Trees!” she exclaims, and Dean forces a smile onto his face in response. “My name’s Helen, I’m here to help with everything you need. Do you have a reservation?”

Dean keeps smiling, turns his charm onto her, because Sam, he can see behind him, is looking more resigned to the whole situation. “We do,” he says. “Name of Huxtable”

Helen types rapidly into the computer. “There you are,” she confirms. “Five nights in one of our deluxe cabins. A very good choice.”

“I hope so,” Dean replies. “We’re really looking forward to it, aren’t we, Sam?”

“What?” says Sam, who seemed to have been staring at a leaflet about cattle ranching, of all things. “Oh, yes, can’t wait,” he stumbles, with a wan smile at Helen, but this doesn’t seem to dampen her enthusiasm.

“I hope you’ll find the cabin meets your approval. As you’re probably aware, we’re a new development on this site, although Luxury Holiday Developments has been running complexes for years and we are proud of our successes and the services we offer. So if there’s anything we can do to improve your stay, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Right,” says Dean, moving to take the key, but she hasn’t finished.

“We run a full range of activities that are fully catered for couples and will appeal to a wide variety of interests, so please take a look through the brochure in your cabin and see if anything takes your fancy. We’re also holding a Meet and Greet this evening in the Sunshine Bar. You can meet the other residents and our representatives will be there to can book you into your chosen activities or help you with any queries.” She finally pauses, and takes a breath. “Is there anything else I can help you with now?”

“I think we’re good,” says Dean, and holds his hand out more firmly for the key.

“I’d just like to add,” she says, and Dean resists the impulse to just snatch the damn thing off her, “how pleased we are that you’ve chosen to holiday at Shady Trees Resort. As a company, we are very proud of our inclusive policy, and I hope your stay will be a pleasant one.”

“We’re---” starts Sam, but Dean interrupts. “We’re really looking forward to it,” he says. Helen smiles again, and explains how to find their cabin, drawing a line on a map from reception round to number 86. “Thank you,” Dean says, taking the key with a sigh of relief. 

“Anything at all,” she says, as they leave reception.

“Fuck me,” Dean breathes as soon as the door closes behind them. “Was it just me, or was she far too cheerful?”

  


Their cabin is nice - much nicer than Sam expected, although the place is entirely new, so it should be good quality and the finish should still be up to scratch and not tarnished by the rush of eager holidaymakers. The lawn is neatly trimmed, and there are perfect rows of petunias and some other flowers lining the borders. It’s all very exact. There’s a porch with two comfortable looking recliners, and okay, Sam could see just sitting and relaxing there for a while - but they’re here to do a job. This isn’t a holiday, this isn’t fun.

_We could make it fun though, Sam?_

Dean unlocks the front door, and shoves himself through unceremoniously. Sam follows more sedately, and takes in the scene in front of him. There’s a lounge, with a large soft couch facing the widescreen TV with all gizmos attached. There’s a kitchen, of course, fully stocked and equipped. Sam opens the fridge. The basic essentials are in there - some milk, bread, butter. At least they won’t be hungry tonight if they don’t get round to shopping. There’s a dining table - a proper one, and Sam can’t remember the last time he and Dean ate at a table like that. Motel tables were all well and good but the flimsy Formica things, small and not enough room for all the elbows of two large and hungry brothers, really couldn’t cut it when compared to this solid wood construction. Sam has a strange urge to cook a meal and sit down with Dean, all civilised and _normal_ and eat together.

_That’d be nice. What would you make, Sam? A nice juicy bloody steak? I bet Dean would love that; that would get you in his good books, and then we can talk more about that fun. Oh c’mon, Sam, you can’t ignore me forever, you’ll talk to me eventually. I know you, Sam._

Sam digs his fingernails deep into the palm of his hand and grits his teeth. He continues exploring; there isn’t an upstairs, and Sam’s beginning to wonder where these bedrooms are. There’s a door leading off from the dining room, and Sam opens it. There’s a bedroom, one double bed, wardrobes, the usual. Sam walks around the room - there’s no other door, apart from the one leading to the en-suite. He walks back out into the dining room, circles the cabin again.

“Dean?” he says after a moment’s pause

“Yeah?” his brother responds, shuffling through his duffel searching for something. Probably his phone charger.

“Where’s the second bedroom?”

“Yeah...about that,” Dean rubs his hand over his face and refuses to meet Sam’s eyes. “Turns out they didn’t have any after all; I mean, I asked, dude, I did, honest, but this was all they could offer me.” He stops, but Sam doesn’t say anything, and Dean continues, filling the silence. “They said they’ve been really popular since they opened and this was the best they could do - it’s a deluxe one, Sam, I didn’t get any crap...”

“You said there would be two bedrooms!” Sam exclaims, and it really shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but it is. There’s Lucifer, there in his face, and sometimes he wears Dean and sometimes he does things that Sam loves, but he feels oh-so-dirty-wrong and he begs Dean-Lucifer-Dean to stop, but Lucifer doesn’t, of course, and he just whispers _“I know just what you want, Sam, I’m going to give it to you, you want it”_ in Sam’s ear, and Sam says “no”, but he feels “yes.” Sam was looking forward to the space, that distance from Dean, just for a while, to see if that helped separate what was Dean and what was not because it was getting harder and harder to tell. 

“It’s alright, Sam,” Dean says, and he pats the couch, “I’ll sleep here, give you the chance to get your beauty sleep, lord knows you need it.”

“Fuck you,” says Sam, and he leans over and punches Dean’s shoulder.

“Ow!”

“Thank you,” Sam says, quietly, and Dean just nods.

“Yeah, well. So. We should go to this thing tonight, this mixer. It’s a good chance to find out what’s going on, what their plan might be.”

Sam nods, and goes to put his things in the bedroom. It is, now that they’re here, the best plan. 

_So, tonight,_ says Lucifer, and he doesn’t stand on courtesy, doesn’t wait for Sam to shut the door, but Sam does, leaving Dean - real Dean - out there on the couch, probably engrossed in some soap or other already. 

_Tonight is going to be interesting,_ Lucifer continues. Sam unfolds shirts one at a time from his bag, hanging them up methodically into the wardrobe. 

_I mean, don’t you think so? You, Dean, a room full of people who think you’re together. A room full of people who are picturing, well, you know, don’t you, I mean, you’ve seen it, you’ve seen how damned gorgeous you both are together, and I know how much you love it. That’s what they’re all going to be thinking, Sam, how can they not. You’re going to have to touch him and smile at him, and it will be him, won’t it? I mean, it won’t be me? You’re sure? It’s not real, Sam, none of this is real. You really have to start believing me when I tell you that, Sam, it’ll be easier, I promise. I just want to help you, I’m just giving you wha you want._

“Shut up,” says Sam before clenching his jaw shut tight.

_Sam! Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice. I’ve missed your voice, I’ve missed it talking to me. Say something else, Sam, say anything._

“You’re not real,” Sam says, and there’s a razor blade in his hand. He doesn’t quite know how it got there, but it’s there, the cold hard metal against his fingers. His washbag is open on the side, and Sam can’t remember opening it, but he must have done.

_You don’t know that,_ beams Lucifer, and he pats Sam on the shoulder. Sam feels the pressure, he feels Lucifer’s hand there, and he feels the hot-cold-indescribable heat that flows from him.

“You’re not real,” Sam repeats, like a mantra. “There is pain and it’s different. It’s different.”

_You know how to stop it, Sam, you know how to be certain one way or another. There is only one way this story ends, and it will end that way because you’re with me and you’re never getting out. You’re mine, Sam, and don’t you forget it._

Sam slips the blade against his skin, blood trickling from the cut. He breathes slowly, deeply, and slides the blade across again, another cut underneath. 

_It’s not going to work,_ Lucifer says, and he sounds bored, perched on the bed now, watching Sam. _It really won’t. I mean, it might, for a while, and you can kid yourself that it’s different and that that’s really Dean out there and that you’re not holed up with me and that you’re not mine, but it won’t hold, Sam. Everything’s gotta give._

Sam breathes deeply again and presses his fingers against, into the cuts. It stings, a slow burn. “It’s different,” he grits out, and presses his fingers deeper, blood flowing around them, red and sticky. 

_You sure?_ Lucifer flickers, and Sam presses down again, thinks of Dean, believes in Dean, his stone number one. Lucifer flickers again, and disappears.

Sam breathes a sigh of relief, and collapses onto the bed. There’s blood around, everywhere. He’s going to have to be more careful, next time, and there’s going to have to be a next time, he can tell, he can feel it. Dean can’t know, can’t know what Sam’s having to do to keep his grip on reality. 

Sam lies down, closes his eyes. He’ll clean up and get ready in a minute. He’ll be ready to face the day.

  


The mixer, meet and greet, whatever the fuck it is, is being held in the big communal hall in the middle of the holiday development. It’s all green and fancy, shiny and new, and so unlike any of the places they’ve stayed in recently. Dean can’t help but feel horribly out of place, and it’s not just because of the whole “hey, yeah, we’re a couple” thing, but he just feels like he taints the place just by being here; like everyone can take one look at him and know that he’s an imposter, that he was never meant to be in places like this, that this was never the life drawn out for him.

He smoothes down his shirt nervously. It’s one of his newer ones, a green affair, picked up from Goodwill, but still in a great deal better condition than some of the clothes stuffed into his duffel. Sam huffs a sigh next to him, and picks at his own shirt sleeve. 

“How’s this gonna go?” he asks.

“Not sure,” Dean says, and he shrugs his shoulders. “Depends, I guess, on what the other guests are like. I mean.”

“Right,” says Sam, and he sighs heavily again. “Let’s get this over with then.” Dean couldn’t agree more really, but he wishes Sam wasn’t being quite like this. It’s no big deal, it really isn’t. It’s not like they haven’t been mistaken for being a couple before. Alright, so it was years ago, and God knows, things were different then, but Dean can’t quite get why Sammy’s so put out over this whole thing. It’s just a shoulder touch here, a few smiles there, maybe some handholding or something. If Dean can get his head round it, do it, then surely Sam can. Dean’s used to Sam being the touchy-feely one. This Sam confuses him. Sam says he’s not hiding anything, but Dean knows when his brother isn’t right. He’s seen enough Sams to know which one is his (yes, his, his Sam) and which ones aren’t the Sam he knows and...well, loves. Dean wishes he knew what Sam was really seeing, but he wouldn’t know how to make it better anyway. He doesn’t know where to begin, where to go from here.

Sam scratches his arm and winces. “You alright?” asks Dean, catching the movement out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Forgot I walked into the doorframe, bruised my arm.”

“You’re an idiot,” Dean grins. “How’d you let a doorframe bust you up?”

“It was a very forceful doorframe.”

“Well, watch out for this one,” says Dean, standing protectively in front of the door they’ve just reached, and opening it for Sam, making a show of stopping Sam being near the frames. “I know you’re big, Sasquatch, but what did the doors ever do to you?”

“Ha ha,” intones Sam, stepping through the door, and he looks awkward, but Dean can’t quite put his finger on it.

“There you are,” a bright voice greets them as soon as they step into the room, “I’ve been telling everyone all about you! We were getting worried you weren’t going to turn up!”

“Uh,” says Dean, as he looks around for the source of the voice through the small gathered crowd of couples who are now staring curiously at them, before a small woman pushes through the throng and makes their way over to them. He recognises the voice now; it’s Helen, the overly enthusiastic receptionist, and it looks like she’s just as overly enthusiastic here. 

“Everyone,” she announces loudly, and Dean kind of wants to turn around instantly and head back out of the door. Or place a gun to his head. “I’d like you all to meet Dean, and this is his partner, Sam. They joined us today, just in time for this little gathering.” She looks expectantly at them both, and Dean coughs awkwardly.

“Uh, hi,” he says, rubbing his hand across his cheek. Next to him, Sam nods, but doesn’t say anything. He’s moved a bit closer, but he’s still too far away really, probably, and Dean reaches out and pulls Sam towards him, hooking an arm around his waist and holding him close. Sam looks surprised, but he schools the look quickly, and it’s replaced with something Dean can identify as a carefully blank expression. Well, whatever. “So yeah, Sam,” he gestures his brother towards them all, “and Dean, nice to meet y’all.” 

“We’re just waiting for one more couple to join us,” Helen informs them all, “and then we can explain a bit more about the programmes we offer and what you might like to do during your holiday with us, including all your options for rest and relaxation, because we understand how important that is too! For the moment, while we wait, please, help yourself to a drink, and there’s some nibbles over on the table as well.” She smiles, and pushes Sam and Dean towards the group, before she disappears off.

“Bit much,” Dean whispers in Sam’s ear.

“You think?” Sam grits back, but he plasters on a smile as they are approached by a young couple. Dean slips his arm around Sam and gives a smile of his own. 

“Hi,” the young woman says cheerfully, holding out a hand. “I’m Phoebe, and this is my husband, Mark.” Mark looks like he’d rather be somewhere else, and raises one eyebrow at the both of them. Dean gets it. He totally gets it. Right now though, there’s a role to play.

He squeezes Sam closer to him. “Dean,” he says, “and Sam, my partner. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It’s so lovely being able to interact with like-minded couples at these things, don’t you think?” enthuses Phoebe, and Dean nods, and nudges Sam, who nods as well. “What made you decide to come here?”

Dean looks up at Sam, and they share a glance. “Well,” Sam begins, and Dean settles for smiling at him softly. That’s totally what couples do, right? He doesn’t let go of Sam, and he can feel Sam wriggle against him, feel that urge to move away, but he can’t, not now. It would look weird. “We were looking for some place that would be open to our lifestyle, you know? Not everywhere is, sadly, but Shady Trees assured us that we would be welcome here. So we booked straight away, didn’t we?”

“Yep,” grins Dean, “Only the best for my Sammy-bear.”

“Dean!” Sam hisses, and elbows Dean in the side. Dean smirks and covers his mouth with his other hand. 

“Whoops,” he says, looking apologetically over at the other couple. “I forget I’m not meant to call him that in public.”

“You’re so cute together!” Phoebe says, ushering them over to the drinks table. “We must meet up and do some activities together – Matt, you’d like that wouldn’t you – see, he’s fine with it, and it’s always lovely to have another couple to do things with.”

“Sure,” shrugs Dean, ignoring the look from Sam he can feel burning into his shoulder. “We’d love to.” 

“It’s getting late,” Mark says, as he hands a drink over to Sam and Dean. Dean notices that Sam drinks his with a bit too much enthusiasm, and takes the opportunity to distance himself slightly from Dean. _Sorry, Sammy, this act’s gotta stick._. “It’s not like Ada and Harry to be this late to these things, is it?”

“It’s not,” agrees Phoebe, furrowing her brow. “They’ve always been so punctual.”

Dean looks pointedly over at Sam, who gives a small shrug in return. He glances around the room, scanning for anything suspicious, but it’s all so normal, all so dull. There’s couples talking with other couples, there’s Helen buzzing around trying to make sure everyone is chatting to other couples, and there’s a load of seats, ready and waiting for what Dean assumes will be a highly boring talk all about the wonderful things he can get up to with Sam, who is doing a good job of only being as coupley as he has to be.

Dean’s just resigning himself to this being one of the dullest and most frustrating jobs they’ve ever set their minds to, when the door bursts open and a hysterical man appears on the other side of it. The room immediately falls silent, and everyone turns to stare, as he tries to talk, fails, and stammers. Helen takes a step towards him, and the man finds his voice. 

“Ada,” he begins, stops, takes a shuddering breath. “She’s – Ada’s gone.” 

There’s silence, and then a clamouring for information.

  


“I don’t know, Dean,” Sam says, and he furrows his brow in confusion. “It doesn’t seem to fit with what we’ve already seen of the Leviathan, you know?”

Dean huffs and draws a red line around some of the wall of information they’ve set up in the dining room. “It has to be them, Sam,” he says, peering at the newspaper text. “They own this place, the people who’ve died - they’ve all had some kind of connection that would have stopped them building this place. I just know it, Sam. This is a cover for something bigger.”

“Maybe,” concedes Sam, “but I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s like we’re missing something.”

“Yeah, the actual information about what the fuck Dick Roman wants with this place.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Other than that, Dean. The deaths, okay - look, we’ve got Mia Delante, heart ripped out, all the blood drained from her body. There’s Eric Blant, again, not a drop of blood left in him, liver, heart, gone. And then just before we arrived there was apparently this other, Walt Rivers – but he’s just missing, there’s no body or anything yet, so it might not be connected at all, but then there’s Ada, last night. But I can’t see anything that connects Walt to this place, I mean, Ada, sure, she’s staying here, but Walt? He’s just an ordinary guy, lives down in the town, works at the bank, y’know? So, maybe he’s just gone somewhere else, I don’t know Dean, but it doesn’t fit together, it doesn’t make sense.”

“Right,” says Dean, carefully drawing a line between two apparently important pieces of information that Sam can’t see the connection between. “Organs gone, blood gone, it’s gotta be the Leviathans. I mean, that’s their moves, dude.”

“Not the blood,” argues Sam. “All the deaths that we know were caused by Leviathan, it’s only been the organs they’ve been after, or the whole body. They don’t drink the blood --”

“As far as we know,” interrupts Dean, “and face it, Sam, we know fuck all about them. They could do a world of kinky-assed shit, and we wouldn’t have a clue. Look. It all fits. We just need to figure out _why_ , get rid of the lot that are running this place, and get the hell out of Dodge.”

Sam opens his mouth to argue again, but he’s not getting anywhere fast with Dean today. Thing is, something is off, and although Dean’s right, they don’t know anywhere near enough about the Leviathan to be able to make sweeping statements about what they might or might not do. The fact is that they do know certain things about them, they’ve faced a fair few now, here and there, and Sam’s pretty certain that all the modus operandi have been dammed similar. He can’t see why they’d go making an exception now. Unless it was a bluff, he supposed, but then, they hadn’t really seemed too bothered about covering their tracks before now. 

He looks back down at the notes he’d gathered about the latest disappearance. Poor Ada Wiles. Harry had been stricken when Sam tried to talk to him earlier, but he’d managed to get some information out of the panic and the worry. And there was the thing. Ada wasn’t connected to this place in any way other than the holiday. They’d seen an advert, seen the bargain introductory rates, and booked the place. So, that didn’t fit either, not with what Dean was concluding. They’d have to keep an eye out now, if the Leviathan were expanding into killing their clients. But why bother - why go to all the expense of setting up a holiday complex if you were going to kill your customers? Sam wasn’t convinced that was the Leviathan master plan here, but Dean was running on a one track mind when it came to Leviathan. Find Leviathan, find plan, find Dick, get revenge. Sam got it, he really did, but it was blinding his brother, and he could see Dean slipping, the worse it got, the harder it got - he could see the bottle, and this fixation, this belief that it _must_ be the Leviathan was just another example.

What if it wasn’t? The place was obviously run by Leviathan, Sam wasn’t denying that, but what if there was something else at work here, something entirely unrelated. Sam grabs his laptop, opens a new document, and starts to type. Lucifer laughs at him from somewhere in the distance, and Sam tries to ignore him. 

_I don’t know why you’re bothering,_ says Lucifer. _It’s none of it real, Sam, you know that._

Sam tries to focus on the ideas and letters in front of him, but it’s becoming more and more difficult. He’s starting to think that what Lucifer is saying, that all of this is a lie, he’s starting to think that Lucifer might be telling the truth.

  


Despite the disappearance of Ada Wiles, Shady Trees Holiday Development seemed to be running as normal. Helen had dropped round earlier that morning with a slightly strained smile explaining all they were doing to help find Ada and the work they were doing in conjunction with the police force. Sam and Dean had nodded politely and assured her that they would still be attending the Masked Ball later that evening. It seemed a stupid idea really, the few of them that there were at a ball, awkwardly dancing to some terrible music. Dean was, to be honest, dreading it, and not just because there’d be no Iron Maiden. He was going to have to dance with Sam, and Sam was going to be all stiff and frozen in his arms and Dean wasn’t going to know what to do.

It wasn’t shaping up to be the greatest evening, and they still had to find Ada.

Sam sighs at the small booklet in his hands detailing the variety of activities that Shady Trees has to offer. He can’t honestly believe anyone here actually _wants_ to go to events billed as “exciting and thrilling evening of cabaret style entertainment,” or the “intriguing and mysterious Masked Ball – who will you spend your evening with?” None of them sound any fun at all, it all sounds so _forced_ and fake, and seriously, people do this for fun? Sam can’t quite wrap his head around the concept. He supposes it’s normal, this is something normal people do on holiday. His holidays had only ever really consisted of somewhere to stay a bit longer between hunts, and that one time Dean took him to Disneyland, even though Sam insisted he was too old for that now, but Dean must have been feeling guilty about the lack of holidays in their lives because he dragged Sam there anyway. 

Sam had somehow managed to find a small jewelled eye mask (Helen had held it out for him triumphantly until Sam reluctantly accepted it) but he still doesn’t know what Dean’s intending to wear. Sam sits, ready and waiting for Dean to emerge from the bathroom. There’s something playing on the TV, voices talking out of the box, but Sam’s not really paying attention. He turns the booklet over in his hands, turns the mask between his fingers. 

Disguise. He’s been disguising himself his whole life, and now he’s going to put this small mask over his eyes and people are going to smile and coo and they aren’t going to know the half of the hell that the disguises really hide. Sam, and Dean, he supposes, can hide it beneath glitter, and sparkles, cloak it in darkness and unspoken agreements to leave the hell alone, can disguise their pasts from those who don’t know and can bury the rest deep enough that perhaps, just perhaps they can forget, but these people, these holidaymakers, they aren’t even going to have the slightest idea. 

There’s movement from the bathroom, and the door opens, Dean emerging into the room. Sam looks at him, and he can’t really believe what he’s seeing. Dean just stands there, hands on hips, posing in the doorway.

“Seriously?” Sam intones after a moment’s pause. “Seriously?”

Dean doesn’t let up from his position. “Seriously,” he nods.

“I don’t think you’ve quite got the right impression as to what a Masked Ball actually en—“

“I know exactly what a Masked Ball is, bitch,” Dean interrupts. “But if you think I’m wearing some glittery piece of whatever on my face, you have got to be kidding me.”

Sam waves his own glittery piece of whatever in the air accusingly. “I thought we were playing a role,” he argues.

“I will only go so far,” Dean says, and he pulls his mask off his face, revealing his grinning face underneath, and Sam can’t help but smile back at him. It’s so rare he sees a smile like that on Dean’s face now, a true smile, and Sam will indulge it, whatever it takes. “Batman is way cooler. And this is totally a mask. It doesn’t specify what _kind_ of mask, does it?”

“No,” Sam agrees, and he pokes his mask again. “You could have got me one, though.”

“You’d have had to be Robin.”

“I’m not being Robin again”

“Exactly.”

“Whatever.” Sam smiles again, and stands up. “We should get going, if we’re going to talk to as many people as possible, see if we can get more of a handle about what’s going on with all these disappearances.”

  


The Ball is exactly as awkward as Dean was expecting. People are milling around as some music plays from the speakers. There’s a band set up in the corner, so Dean supposes this is meant to get better, but he can’t really see how. He also can’t really see Sam’s expression under that glittery mask of his, but he imagines Sam is feeling much the same. Fuck, why did he get them into all of this? He clutches at Sam’s arm, and pulls him towards the drinks table.

“I don’t know about you, but if I’m gonna survive this, I need something strong,” he mutters, and Sam nods in agreement for once, grabbing a bottle of beer, and downing half of it in one gulp. 

“Everyone’s staring,” Sam hisses into Dean’s ear, as they move towards a table.

“They can’t quite believe my beauty,” Dean counters, and he definitely sees Sam’s eyeroll. There’s green in the sequins around Sam’s eyes. It brings out their colour – and Dean cannot believe that he just had that thought. He pushes it quickly from his mind, that’s not the kind of thing he needs to be thinking. Stay on the job, Dean, he admonishes himself. Focus. 

“Can’t believe the stupid thing you’re wearing, more like,” replies Sam, and Dean glares at him. 

A seemingly interminate amount of time passes, people flitting around, talking, complimenting them both. The main topic of conversation is, unsurprisingly, the disappearance of Ada. There’s a heaviness to the evening, despite the best efforts of the staff, and Dean really just wants to go back to the cabin and drink something stronger than this shit and fall asleep in a world where he doesn’t end up thinking about sequins complementing his brother’s eyes. 

There’s activity though; the band are finally getting started, and the attending couples seem to share a collective grin. This is, apparently, the main part of the evening. Maybe they can see some of this out, and then get out of there. By the way Sam is toying with his beer bottle, he’s not having any more fun than Dean.

The band starts up, some slow number that Dean doesn’t recognise, but the dance floor instantly fills with couples. Fuck. Keeping up appearances and all that. Dean grabs Sam’s hand and tugs at it. “C’mon,” he says, tugging again when Sam doesn’t move.

“What?” says Sam, shaking his head. “No way, nahuh. I didn’t agree to any dancing.”

“It’s not proper dancing, dude, it’s just like…I don’t know, swaying or some shit. C’mon, just a song or two, just so people see us.” 

Sam hesitates, but eventually he sighs, and pushes himself up. “One song,” he says, and Dean nods.

“Fine, whatever.” He pulls Sam awkwardly towards him, all long limbs and ungainliness. “Fuck it, this is…”

“Yeah,” agrees Sam, and Dean doesn’t need to see his face to know that Sam is blushing slightly at this proximity. Dean’s got Sam pulled up tight against him, his arms around Sam’s bulk, and Sam, after a moment, puts his arms around Dean as well. They sway together, and it feels _weird_ , not like wrong weird, but just weird, Sam against him like this, kinda stiff and immovable.

“Relax a little,” Dean whispers into Sam’s ear, resting his head against Sam’ shoulder. It’s comfortable. “It’s like dancing with a rock, here.”

“I’m not exactly in a relaxing place right now,” Sam bites out, and Dean doesn’t press it, just sways Sam in time with the music. Sam’s warm and solid and there in his arms, and it’s good. It’s really good, his Sam, there with him, and Dean, for all this awkward weirdness, doesn’t want it to end. He wants Sam in his arms with him forever. He always wants to be looking at Sam’s eyes, looking into them, noticing their colour, the way they are a window into everything that Sam is thinking. He wants to dance with Sam again, he realises, he wants more of this. He wants Sam. He wants, more than anything, right there and then, to show the world that Sam is his. He wants to kiss him. 

So he does.

  


Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Fuck. Dean draws a long pull of the flask, and swears internally again. And then again for good measure. And then again just because this is well and truly fucked up and it’s all his fault. What the fuck was he thinking? How was that possibly _ever_ going to be okay with Sam? No wonder he couldn’t find his brother anywhere. His head was still all messed up from Lucifer’s cage and God knows what else and Dean had just gone and kissed him like it was nothing, just part of the act, and it wasn’t until he saw the look on Sam’s face; that mixture of shock and horror and disgust and want, before Sam had shut down completely, hung around just long enough to be polite before excusing himself back to the cabin. Dean had let him go, he had known Sam long enough to know when to leave him alone (not that he always followed his own advice), and had made up some lame excuse about Sam having felt ill all night - something he ate, best he just go back and sleep it off so they could carry on with all the activities tomorrow.

Except when Dean had returned to the cabin, Sam wasn’t there.

Dean sits down heavily on a chair in the dining room, and pours himself another finger of whiskey. It’s been hours now, and he’s starting to get really worried about Sam. He doesn’t know where to begin looking for him. He’d checked every room in the house, checked the car, called Sam’s cell (rang through to voicemail), called Sam’s other cell (straight to voicemail), called Sam’s cell again (still no answer) and wandered around the dark, sanitized streets of Shady Trees looking for him, but nothing. 

Fuck.

Dean drinks another shot, and he’s lost count of how many that is now. Enough that everything’s starting to get a little bit fuzzy round the edges, which means it really must be a lot, because Dean’s tolerance has gotten pretty fucking high over the years. He pours another one anyway, because Sam’s not here to bitch at him, and _Sam’s not here._

He doesn’t know why he did it, why he leaned over, crossed the short distance between their lips and pressed them together. He didn’t need to, they were dancing, holding each other awkwardly, but putting on a decent enough show. Everyone had had their “aww” moment at their token gay couple, and Phoebe and Matt were smiling at them, and Dean had just wanted, just then, right then, to be closer to Sam, to prove to everyone that Sam really was his, and Sam had smiled at him, just a little, and Dean had kissed him. Sam _was_ his, dammit, he was his brother, he was his world, and Dean needed to look after Sam, and in that moment, he had wanted nothing more than to protect and care for him in every possible way.

And then Sam had pulled away, and Sam had fumbled his words and mumbled something about “getting some air” and then he was fucking gone and Dean doesn’t know what to do.

Fuck. He pours another shot, a large one. The bottle will be empty by morning.

  


This time it’s Dean on the page, Sam is pretty certain of that. The details aren’t clear, and he’s not entirely sure what was flowing out of the pen, but he’s pretty certain it’s Dean. That’s his body shape, his hair, there, outlined in ink, but he’s twisted and broken and not right, and it hurts Sam just to look at it. Since he’d run from the ball, disorientated and confused, he’d wandered around the quiet roads for some amount of time, an hour? Maybe more. He’d stumbled back to the cabin, grabbed the journal, grabbed a pen, nothing else, and left again. He couldn’t be in there right now, not when everything was Dean and all things reminded him of his brother. His spare jacket dumped on the floor near the front door, the half eaten sandwich Dean had made before they went out still sitting there on the counter. The sweet wrapper on the coffee table, the dent of his shoes in the carpet, fuck, even the smell of him in the air.

It was all Dean and it was too much and Sam didn’t know what to do. He’d clattered back out of the cabin, down to the lakeside, and somehow ended up sitting on a jetty. The moonlight was bright tonight, and he’d turned to a blank page and just let it all out.

Dean had kissed him. His Dean, his brother Dean, the actual real flesh and blood, live and in front of him Dean. Sam was aware that it had just been a show, something to convince everyone that this act was real, that they really were the perfectly sweet couple everyone thought they were, but Dean had leaned across the space between them and kissed him. 

It wasn’t -- reality was difficult, and confusing. What was up and what was down, what was Dean and what was Lucifer? Lucifer was blessedly silent for a moment, but Sam knew from prior experience that wouldn’t last. He’d pop up again, cheerful voice in Sam’s ear - _so, hey, does Dean know what you got up with me? Have you told him yet?_

No, fuck no, Sam hasn’t told him. Sam hasn’t told him of all the times Lucifer wore Dean’s face, spoke softly to him and soothed him in ways that only Dean could, years of bringing Sam up always working well. He hasn’t told him of how Lucifer-Dean-Lucifer then soothed him in ways Dean never had; how, wearing Dean’s face, Lucifer had kissed him and told him that this, wanting Dean like this, wasn’t bad, it wasn’t terrible - it was a _good_ thing, and Sam should give in to it. Sam had tried, keeping Lucifer at arms length during nights, days, nights that seemed interminably cold, with no way to get warm, but Lucifer-Dean-Lucifer said he’d heat him up, all it had to do was let him in and it would be so much better, everything he’d ever wanted, everything he needed right then.

Sam had stopped resisting after a while, and Lucifer blurred into Dean and memories of Dean blurred into Lucifer and he couldn’t tell which was which for a long time. He still wasn’t always entirely sure. Lucifer-Dean-Lucifer-Dean? had held him, and whispered in his ear. He told Sam he would be safe, looked after, that Dean would always look after his little brother, give him what he needed. Lucifer-Dean-Lucifer always did.

Sometimes Dean-Lucifer-Dean wasn’t there, it was all Lucifer, pent up and angry and all cool rage at something, lashing out at Michael, or sometimes at Sam, or sometimes the both of them lashing out together, and Sam longed for Dean to come back and take care of him, but Dean never came, not until he was ready.

Sam hashes another thick line onto the page, and etches out the word: ‘REALITY?’ in rough capitals.

_Did you enjoy that tonight?_

“Shut up.”

_But I thought that was what you wanted, Sam? Don’t you miss it when Dean held you in his arms and kissed you? You always seemed to like that part._

“Shut up,” Sam repeats.

_I thought I’d cheer you up a little, give you what you wanted._

“It was Dean,” Sam bites out. “Dean kissed me. Dean.”

_Nope,_ shrugs Lucifer, _‘fraid not. That was all me, 100% pure and amazing._

“No,” Sam says. “I know what’s real, I know Dean. That was Dean.”

_But Dean wouldn’t,_ Lucifer argues, _I would. I know what you want, Sam, I know what you need. Dean’s never going to give that to you, but me, I can, and I’ll look after you Sammy, I’ll treat you right._

“Leave me alone,” Sam hisses. “It was Dean. It was just an act, but it was Dean.”

_No can do, Sammy, I’m in your melon._ Lucifer taps his head almost confidentially. _And I’m not going anywhere. You can end all this, Sam. You know what to do._

Sam stands with a speed that surprises even him, almost toppling off balance, and strides off the jetty, back towards dry land. _Sam,_ wheedles Lucifer, behind him. _C’mon Sam, don’t be like this. Please? Pretty please with a cherry on top?_ Sam ignores him, it’s not right, none of it is right and he can’t...he can’t.

His feet have walked him back to the cabin. There’s a light on in the kitchen, and upstairs. Maybe Dean is back. He stands outside for a moment, ignoring Lucifer’s continued pleas for attention, before he takes a deep breath, and goes back inside.

  


The morning light streams in bright and cheery through the drapes, and Dean curses, and throws a pillow over his head in an attempt to block it out. It’s only a minute or two though, before his brain catches up with him. Shit. Sam.

He’s up and out of bed without a second thought, and rushing through to the living room without pulling on anything more than the boxers he was wearing in bed. “Sam?” He calls out, but there isn’t an answer. “Sam?” he tries again, more forcefully, but still nothing. Dean doesn’t stand on ceremony, and he bursts into the room, hoping upon hope that his brother is there, curled up, asleep.

The sofa is empty, and it clearly hasn’t been slept on 

Fuck. Dean scans the room quickly, but he can’t see any sign of Sam anywhere, and there’s nothing to give him a hint as to where Sam might have gone. “Sam?” he calls, heading towards the kitchen. “Sammy?” Sam can’t still be gone, he can’t be. Dean can’t have fucked this up that monumentally. He needs Sam, he needs his brother in whatever form he can have him, he’ll take what he can get, just as long as Sammy comes back.

  


The morning light streams in bright and cheery through the drapes, and Sam sighs and stretches. He doesn’t want to wake up yet. Just five more minutes. He stretches out again, feeling it all the way down to his toes, and turns over onto his side. Dean is there, still asleep, soft contented look on his face, and Sam traces the line of his cheekbone with his finger and smiles. Waking up to the sight of his brother every morning real and true and by his side in bed was something that Sam never thought he would get. Not after everything with Lucifer, the cage, everything that had happened there. Yet here he was, soft and real and most importantly _his_. He’d never believed that Dean would feel the same way, that he could be happy here in a normal house, living a normal life with his brother by his side as his lover. It probably should feel more wrong. It doesn’t.

“Hey,” Sam whispers, and kisses the bit of Dean’s neck he loves so much, the bit where there are soft whispers of hair that tickle his nose. “Mornin’” He kisses Dean again, up to behind his earlobe, and he nibbles on the smooth skin there until Dean responds.

“Go sleep, Sam,” Dean mumbles, half awake, but Sam’s persistent, and he continues his attentions on Dean’s ear, working round, kissing his eyelids, once, twice, kissing his cheek, capturing Dean’s lips on an angle where Dean is squashed sleepily into the pillow. He kisses Dean’s lips gently again, and again until Dean finally opens up and kisses him back, his tongue licking at the corners of Sam’s mouth. It’s soft and gentle, and Sam could kiss Dean like this forever, but he’s woken Dean up for a reason. 

“Want you, Dean,” he breathes onto Dean’s skin. “I want you to fuck me.” Sam loves it when Dean fucks him lazily in the morning, that mixture of sleep and horny and desire and love, and it’s slow and tender, and everything Sam’s ever wanted from him. Morning sex with Dean is his favourite kind of sex. 

Dean’s more awake now, for all his eyes are still half lidded and bleary, but Sam knows he can’t resist either. Dean shifts his body against Sam’s, and Sam can feel him half hard against his thigh. “Know you want it too, Dean,” he says, rubbing up against it. “Want to fuck me slowly, take your time, take me as deep and hard as you can.”

“Fuck, Sam,” Dean says, and that’s all before he’s kissing Sam into oblivion, and all Sam can see and taste and feel is Dean Dean Dean all around him. Dean’s rutting up against his hip now, and he’s hard, he’s ready, and Sam wants nothing more than to feel Dean push inside of him, push balls deep until he can feel Dean’s hips against his ass, and Sam wants to feel that, wants to feel Dean fuck him. “Do it,” he says, and he shucks off the boxers he was sleeping in, kicks them off his ankles, and he guides Dean’s hand down to his ass, presses his fingers there. “Want you now, Dean. Want you inside of me.”

“The things you do to me,” Dean mumbles, and Sam can see the sleep still in his eyes, but he’s with this now, he wants this just as much as Sam, and he reaches out for the lube they keep on the nightstand, spreading it liberally all over his fingers, and slicking it against Sam’s ass. Sam hisses at the cold sensation; it gets him every time, but then Dean’s there, smoothing his fingers around Sam’s hole, and Sam just wants him in there, now. Dean’s teasing him, he likes to do this in the mornings, as revenge for Sam waking him up. He takes his time, takes Sam slow until Sam’s begging for Dean to touch him, to get in him, please Dean, _please._ Sam knows it won’t be long until he’s begging now, he wants Dean so much, he wants Dean inside of him, fucking him, claiming him as his own. 

Morning sex with Dean is one of the best things in Sam’s world.

  


Dean rushes out of the cabin and into the streets, still calling Sam’s name. This is all his fucking fault; if he’d just left it, if he hadn’t...none of that mattered right now. What matters is finding Sam and making sure he’s safe and well.

Sam is nowhere to be found - he isn’t in any of the communal areas, isn’t anywhere. The small ball of worry is now a large hard rock in Dean’s stomach, and instinctively he knows that something is very wrong. He marches into the reception, banging on the bell impatiently.

“Can I--”

“Have you seen Sam?” Dean interrupts. He can’t be bothered with any pleasantries right now, not when Sam is missing.

“Not since the dance,” Helen begins, and Dean is already turning and making to leave the office, but she calls out, “Wait, what’s wrong? Is there anything I can help with?”

Dean turns back and growls. “No. You can stay out of it.” He pauses, and turns back to the desk, jabbing a finger into her face. “But if I find out that you have _anything_ to do with this...”

Helen pales. “How could you -- I don’t --”

“I know what you are,” Dean hisses, all attempts at pretence gone. He _has_ to find Sam. 

She pauses a moment, taps a finger delicately on the counter. “Yes,” she says, at length, “but this is not our doing.”

“No?” accuses Dean. “Did you finally figure out that who we were and think you’d get into your bosses good books by getting us, is that it? Where’s Sam?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” Helen shakes her head. “What do you mean, who you are?”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Are you that low level?”

“I just work here, for the company. I just do my _job_ ”

“And when that job involves killing people to get what you want?”

“Killing people!” Helen exclaims. “We have nothing to do with these deaths. Do you really think that we, the company, want this associated with our name? That’s not what we’re trying to do here, Mr. Huxtable”

Dean pauses in the path he’s been wearing into the carpet. “Fine,” he says after a moment, “but this isn’t over.”

  


Sam wakes again, happy and satisfied, and he turns over, hoping to pull Dean closer towards him and just hold him tight, but Dean’s not there. Sam sits bolt upright, a strange fear coursing through his veins, but then he hears some faint noises from the kitchen. Dean must be making breakfast. Sam’s stomach rumbles, and he decides to listen to it, and glances around for some clothes to pull on.

He’s in the middle of pulling on a pair of sweatpants when he hears it. _Sam. Sam!_

“Dean?” Sam questions, tightening the tie at the waist, but there’s no answer.

_Sam, fuck, just for once, listen to me. This isn’t right Sam, this isn’t right, this place._

“Fuck!” Sam exclaims, turning and jumping almost a foot into the air when he sees a man standing there. He looks sad, downcast, and Sam recognises him, but he doesn’t know who he is. 

_Hi Sam._

“Who are you?”

_Well, there’s a question and a half_ Sam’s grabbed a knife and some salt from under the pillow – precautions are still important, and the man puts his arm out slowly. _It’s not going to show you anything, Sam. I’m real. Well, I’m mostly real. Some of the time. But this isn’t real, Sam, and it’s not good, and you need to get out._

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Get out of here, whoever you are.”

The man shrugs sadly and taps his forehead. _No can do, Sammy._

Sam straightens, and begins to back away from the man slowly. “Dean,” he calls, heading for the door, “Dean!”

Dean’s whistling a happy tune when he pokes his head round the door frame, and there’s flour on his t-shirt and somehow in his hair. “I’m making pancakes,” he announces, and plants a kiss on Sam’s forehead. “Morning.”

Sam looks between Dean and the man, but he sees nothing on Dean’s face - there’s no fear, no shock, no anger, just...nothing. It’s like he’s looking right through the man. “Do you not --” Sam trails off, and gestures in the man’s general direction.

“Do I what?” asks Dean, looking in the direction Sam indicated, and turning back to Sam, looking confused. 

“Nothing,” mutters Sam, and steers Dean back out of the bedroom. “Did I hear something about pancakes?”

_I love pancakes,_ says the man, who can’t be real.

  


Dean sits down heavily at the table in the cabin, and places the journal upon it. Fuck, he’s got to find Sam. He flicks half-heartedly through the pages, lined with his Dad’s familiar handwriting, notes here, drawings, diagrams, hoping that something will leap out at him and help him find Sam. It’s as he turns one of the later pages, though, that he notices something that definitely wasn’t put there by Dad, and then he remembers. Sam. Sam, who always seems to be writing something down in the journal, who always has it on him. Dean had questioned that for a while; even after all this time, it seemed a strange thing for Sam to be holding on to and keeping close, but he’d figured, hey, it’s just a book, useful research, and Sam’s good at that.

He turns to the pages Sam’s been working on - maybe there’s something in them that will give him a hint as to what might have taken his brother - he’s pretty certain something’s taken Sam, now, and that he hasn’t just walked away, but as he turns through more drawings and scribbled notes, he’s suddenly not so sure. He remembers then, that glimpse he had gotten when Sam was asleep in the car, a glimpse of the darkness. Now he can take a closer look. 

There’s the usual stuff, the stuff that he was expecting: notes on the monsters they’d ganked in the last few weeks, musing on mythology and collations of what they actually know about the Leviathan. And then, there’s darkness, and pain, and things Dean never wanted to have to see or think about again, if he could help it. Dean thrusts the journal away from him to the other side of the table. Fuck. He’d known Sam wasn’t right, that his head was fragile and that Sam was keeping a lot of the damage from him, but that...and then he’d just gone and muddled things even further, probably fucked Sam’s brain’s even more and just for this stupid case. It was nothing, it wasn’t worth the destruction of his brother, and Dean hadn’t done so much just to lose Sam now. Apart from anything else, he wasn’t entirely sure he would be able to carry on without Sam by his side. He needed Sam, however that played out, he needed Sam.

Dean reaches out and pulls the journal back over, carefully avoiding the back pages. He’d never really spoken to Sam about everything that happened to him during his stint in Hell, but just the brief glance he’d got of some of the things in Sam’s drawings showed him Sam had been through some of the same, and worse, and fuck, for _longer_ , and Dean couldn’t even begin to think about it. His job, ever since he was a kid, had been to look after his brother, and this was just another sign that he’d failed so spectacularly in his task. 

In the front though, there had to be something, something that he’s overlooking that links Sam and these other missing -- or dead people. He runs through everything in his head again: people linked to the site, visitors; one grabbed, and missing for days, before their bodies were found, dumped in the woods, drained of their blood, some with organs missing, although Dean was starting to think that was a double bluff - something to make anyone who was looking just assume it was the Leviathan. He doesn’t trust Helen an inch, but he can see her point. This isn’t the way to their end game.

He looks back down at the journal, which is now open on a page he hadn’t looked at in years. Dean looks suspiciously at the journal for a moment - he hadn’t been looking at that page, he could have sworn his baby on it, but then his eyes widen. Fuck. Fuck. Of course.

Djinn.

Dean scrambles up and grabs his jacket and checks that his gun is safely in the holster. Oh god, he has to get to Sam, as soon as possible. Djinn juice messed with your head on a normal day, let alone when your head was already scrambled. Dean can’t allow himself to think about it. He scans the map of the Shady Trees that Helen had given them on the first day there, looking for somewhere that a djinn might choose for their hideout. He’s pretty damn confident that it was somewhere around here, everything linked as it was to Shady Trees, but where?

He rushes out, slamming the door behind him, heading back to reception.

  


It’s bright and sunny, like all days seem to be, and Dean is mowing the lawn outside their house, waving back at Sam. Sam, sitting on the porch, idly sipping at a beer, can’t help but think how utterly perfect this is. How did he ever deserve all this?

_Exactly! It’s far too perfect, Sam, don’t you see? This isn’t real, Sam, and there’s only one way to end it._

Sam whirls round to face the direction of the sound, and sees the man standing there again. “Everything alright, Sammy?” Dean calls over, clearly having spotted the movement.

“Yeah,” replies Sam. “Thought I heard something, was all.”

“Nothing out here,” says Dean, and he cuts out the mower, and strides confidently over, sitting down beside Sam and stealing a pull from his beer. “Hey,” complains Sam, but there’s no malice in it.

“You love me really.”

“Hmm,” says Sam, but he bumps Dean’s shoulder. He _does_ love him. Of course this is real.

_Oh, Sam, if only it were, but look. Really look at him. It’s not real, Sam, you need to end this. Come back to me._

Sam stands, dislodging Dean, who looks at him, confused, as Sam wanders over to an apparently empty spot.

“Why should I trust you?” Sam whispers.

“Sam?” Dean’s questioning, confused. Sam waves a hand at him; he’ll only be a minute.

_I’ve always wanted what’s best for you, Sam. We go way back, you and I, we’re made for each other, and I know what’s best, Sam. And this, this, I mean, look around you, Sam, you know this is too perfect. It isn’t real. Nothing this good is ever real. You know this._

“No! This is my life,” says Sam. “Dean -- he knows what’s best for me, and I don’t even know who the fuck you are, and you…You’re just a figment of my imagination; you don’t exist, you’re the bit that’s not real!”

“Sam?” says Dean again, and he’s standing up, walking closer.

_No_ , insists the man forcefully, _just look, Sam. Look at Dean, look closely. Look at this place. Sam, you know it’s not right, you can feel it --_

“Hey,” says Dean, resting a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “what’s up? Who are you talking to?”

Sam blanches, shakes his head. “Nothing. No one,” he says. “Let’s go for a walk.” Dean blinks at the sudden suggestion, but he nods.

“Okay.” He hasn’t let go of Sam’s shoulder, holding him close, and Sam’s grateful for that touch, that connection. This is his brother, his Dean, his everything. He knows it’s real.

  


Helen had been, for a Leviathan, surprisingly helpful, and pointed out a few places on the map where visitors and staff wouldn’t generally go and where a djinn might be found. She appeared to be as annoyed as Dean was angry at the presence of the djinn at her project (“Fucking idiots,” she had said, “they don’t think things through, you know, just rush into these things and take whatever they want. No forward thinking.”) She’d offered to come along with Dean and help him out, but Dean had declined. He had, however, accepted the offer of a handy supply of lamb’s blood – the knife he could provide, but to kill a djinn, well. That, however, was as far he was prepared to go in collaborating with her, or any of her kind.

He’s already checked out two of the places on her list and found them deserted, with no sign of any activity. There are still a couple of places it could be, and on instinct, Dean chooses a shed near to the lake, which Helen had informed him was just full of old machinery that they didn’t want or need. 

He approaches the shed slowly. It’s old and run down, and he can see the old wood stain, and some peeling paint from back when someone had obviously decided that the place needed sprucing up. It’s starting to get dark again, but there are missing slats obviously visible, and the dying light glints against some old metal within the shed.

Dean’s hackles rise. He doesn’t know how he knows, but this is the place. Sam is here.

He slips instantly into hunter mode, silently passing through the shadows, and scoping out the building. Thankfully, it doesn’t look like the djinn is around, but Dean’s not taking any chances with this - he’s been bashed around enough by these creatures, thank you very much. He pushes gently on the broken down door, which swings open with very little resistance, creaking slightly in the still evening air. Dean pauses, checks the entrance, and steps in, gun raised and ready.

It’s darker inside the barn - the windows are boarded up, and there are only thin shards of light from the missing slats. “Sam?” he hisses under his breath, stepping across a pile of broken wood, “c’mon, Sammy, where are you?”

He almost trips over some sort of table in the middle of the room, and sidesteps into something wet and sticky. “Fuck,” he says, looking down at his feet, and scrabbling for his torch. “Oh, great,” he breathes as he notices what he’s standing in; there’s a pool of congealed blood lying there, deep red and thick. “Not good. Not good.”

Dean presses on, and thankfully, the place is only small, because he rounds a flimsy looking piece of drywall, and there, here’s the place. “Fuck.” He rushes forward, straight for Sam, who’s hanging there, eyes closed shut, all the familiar tubes and wires coming from him, and Dean just wants to rip them out right there and then, grab Sam close and get him the fuck out of there, get them both out, to anywhere but here, anywhere but Shady Trees, but he needs to wake him up first, get him out of whatever world the djinn has created for him. 

“Sam,” he says, patting Sam’s face lightly. “C’mon, bro, wake up. Please, Sam, you’ve got to wake up.” He pats a bit harder, and shakes him a bit for good measure as well, but there’s no reaction. Dean stares at his unconscious brother for a moment, before glancing around the rest of the small alcove. There’s another woman there – Ada Wiles, Dean supposes, and he heads over to check if she’s okay. He checks her pulse. She’s still breathing, but lightly, and Dean knows he should get her out of there soon. He turns, and there’s another; a thin guy. Dean doesn’t know who this is, but fuck, he doesn’t look good. Dean reaches out and touches his neck. It’s ice cold; the guy’s gone. “Fuck,” Dean sighs, and turns away.

“C’mon, Sam,” he says again, “wake up. Just do it, you can do it.” He glances around again, all senses still on alert, and touches Sam’s hand lightly. “You’ve gotta get out, dude. I mean, fuck, Sam, what would I do without you?”

Sam’s face remains alabaster smooth and pale, and there’s not a flicker of recognition.

“Sam...”

  


“You’re wrong,” hisses Sam, “you don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re not even real!” He’d been down in the basement, doing laundry, when this man, this maniac had appeared again, talking shit, saying things that weren’t true, that couldn’t be true.

 _Sam_ , the man placates, _I’m real, honestly, but this, all of this, isn’t. You know what you have to do, Sam._

“I don’t know what to do,” moans Sam, and he can’t decide between this strange man and the man who is his brother but isn’t, not quite. Dean is Dean, Sam has to hold on to that, he knows that, but this Dean is perfect. And somehow, that’s not right. He is Dean in every way, except that. “I…I don’t know.” He repeats.

_The weapons, it’s all just there, Sam, under the tarp, you know, don’t you. You can get back, Sam, you’ve just got to do it. Remember Sam, think about what you know, c’mon._

Sam shakes his head, and hunches down onto the cold concrete floor. “No,” he says, “this is all mine, all real.”

_You know that’s not true, Sam, please._

Sam shakes his head again, but what the man is saying, what he’s claiming, twinges at something in his mind, something that says ‘yes, this isn’t right, get the fuck out of here now, do it. Do it. You’ve seen this before, you’ve got to get out,’ but he can’t put his finger on it, not completely. He moves towards the tarpaulin anyway. It covers a trunk full of all their hunting gear. Dean put it down there when they moved in and retired from the life. He did, Sam remembers. Or he thinks he remembers. 

_Gun’s the quickest, Sam, or a knife, or whatever, but you’ve got to do it, Sam_

Sam nods slowly. He can’t remember Dean doing this. He can’t remember moving in at all. He can’t remember the first time he slept with Dean, and surely, surely he would remember that. It can’t, he can’t – he lifts a gun from the trunk, raises it to his head.

“Sam!” Dean’s frantic cry startles him and he almost drops the gun. “Sam, what the fuck, Sam, put the gun down, c’mon.”

“I can’t,” Sam says, and he’s crying now, there are tears streaming down his face. “I can’t. You’re not Dean, you’re not real.”

“What are you talking about?” says Dean, stepping tentatively towards him. “Yes I am, I’m your Dean, I’m real, look, touch me.” He holds out his arm, but Sam flinches away.

“No, no,” he babbles, raising the gun again, “you’re not. What he says, it makes sense, and it’s not right, it doesn’t feel right, and I can’t – I have to…”

“Sam,” Dean says again, and he’s pleading, there’s panic in his eyes. How can Sam think of leaving him? How can Sam leave him behind? He falters, and the gun wavers in his hands.

_Be strong, Sam, focus on the truth_ , urges the man, and Sam looks, and Sam knows that this isn’t right, this can’t be his Dean, because this is all too good to be true, all too perfect for their fucked up little lives. And he pulls the trigger.

  


Dean’s still touching -- fine, holding -- Sam’s hand, when he opens his eyes, and draws in a rasping gasp of breath. Dean’s instantly up, and holding on to Sam tighter, it’s not important, what’s important is that Sam is here, Sam is breathing, Sam is back with him.

“Sam,” he exhales, letting out a breath he’d barely been aware he was holding. Sam coughs fitfully, and struggles weakly. “Hey, hey,” Dean chides softly. “settle down, we’ll get you out of here, just concentrate on breathing, yeah?”

“Dean?” he says, and his voice is tired and soft, and Dean squeezes his hand just at the sound of it. 

“Yeah, it’s me, Sam.”

“Really you?” The question sounds desperate, broken, and Dean wonders what the hell Sam was seeing in that dreamland. What with everything in his head, everything that Dean had seen in just the brief glance in the journal, he was pretty sure it wasn’t anything completely good.  
“Really me,” he assures Sam, and sets to work pulling out the drip and other needles that are protruding from Sam’s arm. 

“‘re not real,” Sam protests weakly. “He, Lucifer, nothing real...”

“Shh, Sam, shh, just for a minute while I get you out of here. We’ll work it out.”

“He says this still isn’t real, Dean, he says this isn’t real, he’s saying it right now, Dean.” Sam was struggling more now, in Dean’s arms, and Dean doesn’t know the way forward. 

“Sam,” he says, more forcefully. “Sam, listen to me, man. We -- you can sort out what’s real later, but right now, we’ve got to get the fuck out of here. It’s not safe, and real or not, I need to you listen to me and get the hell out. Okay?” Sam nods weakly, and he takes a shuddering breath. Dean can’t see what’s going through is mind; can’t even begin to guess, can’t even imagine what Sam’s seeing right now, what his mind is making of all this, but he just needs Sam to be strong for a few minutes while he deals with this, and then, then after everything, he can deal with his broken brother.

Fuck if he knows how. Fuck, he could do with a drink right now.

Dean takes a deep breath of his own and finishes unhooking Sam from all the paraphernalia. Sam leans heavily on him, and his eyes are closed, shut tight. He looks pale, unsurprisingly, and Dean traces a finger along the side of Sam’s face, moving it away quickly when Sam winces. There’s cuts on his arms as well as the needle jabs, and Dean, well, Dean can take a pretty good guess at where they came from, because they’re older than the last couple of days. “Sam,” he breathes, and he wants to pull his brother closer, but with the delicate state of Sam’s mind right now, Dean doesn’t even know how much longer he can hold on. He’s pretty certain that if Sam could stand up by himself, he wouldn’t be touching Dean at all right now. Dean wishes that wasn’t the case. 

“Sam, I’ve gotta put you down for a sec, yeah? That’s Ada, Ada Wiles, over there, you remember her, Sam? She went missing? She’s alive, but I gotta get her out as well, you get that, right?”

“That’s what Dean would say,” mumbles Sam, but he crumples to the floor willingly enough, and Dean props him up against the drywall. 

“Exactly,” Dean nods, and he moves over to Ada, working as quickly as he can to free her. She’s even weaker than Sam, and Dean doesn’t even want to think about how he’s going to get them both out of here, especially with his sasquatch of a brother. Her eyelids flutter when he pulls the drip out, and he mutters reassurances in her ear. He doesn’t know how much she can hear or understand right now, but it seems like the right thing to do. 

Suddenly there’s a noise, quiet, but there, in the corner of the building, and Dean whirls round, instantly alert. “Sam?” he whispers into the darkness, and receives a gentle moan in response. Good, still awake. “Stay put, Sam. Don’t try to move.” Dean edges to the sides of the little room, standing uncomfortably close to the body of Walt Rivers. “Sorry, dude,” Dean says, sliding behind the body and crouching in its shadow. There’s a movement, slight, but Dean sees it. “Fuck.” The fucking djinn is back, and his brother is sitting there and Dean, well, Dean needs to get them the fuck out of there and kill the fucking thing. 

He waits, and the djinn approaches its den, slowing in suspicion as it realises that Sam is no longer trussed up. It notices Sam, propped up, and it spins round, searching. Dean concentrates on making his breathing as quiet as possible. He has to wait for the right moment. It’s only him, he has to get this right first time, or he’ll be enjoying that fake world again, and as much as he wants out, he’s damned if it’ll be on the terms of a monster. If Dean’s going anywhere, it’s on his terms. 

The djinn heads over to Ada, who stirs and whimpers - the drug pumping through her must have subsided, and she’s regaining consciousness. “Hush,” slithers the djinn, and it reconnects the tubing, before moving towards Sam. It’s got its back to Dean now, and Dean waits, waits. He’s not gonna let the thing lay another finger on his brother, but he has to wait. Sam’s not with it; Dean can see him try to move, to stand up and get away from the thing he must recognise as bad, but he’s got no strength in his limbs and he just falls uselessly to the floor again. Dean can see the whites of his eyes; Sam’s terrified, Sam doesn’t know what’s what, Sam doesn’t know what’s real, Sam doesn’t understand, and that’s it - he has to act now. The djinn’s got his hands on Sam’s arm, and that familiar blue glow is starting, and no. Sam. 

He surges forward, aiming for the element of surprise, striking for the creature with the knife he’d brought along. He manages a hit, a minor one on its arm, as the djinn clocks him and dodges his attack. It advances on him, snarling, and Dean spins the knife into a better position, and takes up an attacking stance. This thing isn’t going anywhere. This thing has hurt his brother, and this thing will pay. He whirls around and manages to catch the djinn again. It howls in pain, and flies towards Dean, but Dean’s ready with the knife out in front of him, and he runs it into the creature, twisting it with a grim burst of satisfaction. He pulls the knife out, and the djinn crumples to the ground, light in its eyes dying. Dean kicks it for good measure, just to check that its actually gone, before he rushes back to Sam’s side. “Just…just let me get Ada, okay, Sam? I’m here, I’ve gotcha, but…” Sam nods weakly, and Dean returns to Ada, pulling the needles from her veins, and untying her from her position. She slumps against his shoulder, but he can feel her shallow breathing. He shifts, tries to move her to a position where he can carry her and support Sam, but it’s complicated. He manages, though, Ada up over one shoulder, and his other arm clinging tight to his brother, who can just about walk, and they stumble out together, back up to the main area of the resort.

  


Shady Trees is strangely deserted when they return, just a bunch of confused couples staring at the hastily scribbled notice on the door of reception: “Due to unforeseen circumstances, Shady Trees Luxury Resort is closing with immediate effect. All monies shall be refunded.” That’s it, nothing more, no further explanation, but Dean thinks he can probably guess that it just wasn’t worth all the hassle, all this fallout from the deaths. The publicity probably wasn’t helping, but Dean knows they’ll be back, maybe not here, but some other holiday place, some other part of America. He wishes he knew what the fuck they were up to, what the big bad plan was. They’re still no closer to knowing, or to getting their hands on Dick. Fuck this whole thing. Fuck Frank, fuck the Leviathans, fuck everything. Sam had almost been killed, and it hadn’t even gotten them anywhere. Another one to add to the list of ‘seriously, what is the fucking point any more, I’m just going to drink myself into a stupor.’

Harry, of course, had been beyond delighted to see Ada alive and returned, and Dean had tried to deflect the more awkward questions and the hows and the whys, and had finally managed to get Sam back to their cabin. No more management, but he guesses they can stay there for a little while longer before something else moves in on this place. He manages to get Sam through the door, Sam stumbling, weak with blood loss and confusion. He hasn’t said anything yet, and Dean’s fairly certain he’s been unconscious some of the time. Dean supports him through into the bedroom, and hefts him onto the bed, pulling off Sam’s shoes and covering him up with a sheet. He’ll deal with wounds and things as soon as he can, but right now Sam needs rest, and sleep, and, Dean fears, the chance to get a hold on reality again. 

Sam murmurs sleepily as Dean pulls the sheet up around him, and Dean pushes back the hair from Sam’s forehead. “Shhhhh,” he says, “it’s okay now, Sam. I gotcha, it’s okay.”

“Not real,” Sam says, and his eyes are still tight shut. “Can’t be real.”

Dean doesn’t argue, not right now. 

“Not real,” Sam continues, “’cause the real Dean wouldn’t love me like this.”

Dean pauses, and stands stock still by the bed.

“S’never gonna happen, not real.”

“Shhhh,” Dean says in response, because he doesn’t know what else he can say right now. “Get some sleep, Sammy, sleep.”

  


Sam’s still weak, his head resting against the window of the car as Dean turns off the small local road and hits the highway again. He doesn’t really know where they’re heading, again, but he figures they need somewhere to rest up for a while. They need somewhere where all this can be sorted. Dean wants to broach the topic with Sam, but Sam is turned away from him and there’s a stiffness in his posture which Dean knows means “don’t even try it.” Sam’s usually the one pushing him to talk, but he can be a stubborn bastard when he wants to be, and Dean’s not sure he wants to push the boundaries on this one. Maybe, once Sam’s settled his head, gained a new grasp on reality, well, maybe then it can be pushed under a rock and ignored and they can just get on with things.

Dean knows that isn’t going to happen. Too much has been said - well, not said, but implied, at any rate, and he’s not going to forget what his brother said when Dean was bundling him back onto the sofa in the cabin, tucking him up with a blanket under his chin, and Dean’s not going to forget the way he leant forward and kissed Sam at the dance, and how, even though he knew it was an act, it didn’t exactly feel wrong.

It’s not going to go away.

“Sam,” he tries, but Sam turns his head further, and Dean’s heart drops. “Fuck, Sam, please, just talk to me.” There’s no response, but Dean can’t stay silent and he ploughs on regardless. “Sam, c’mon. You know -- you know I can’t do this without you, man.” He coughs awkwardly. “You’re all I’ve got left, Sammy.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, just stares out at the passing highway, and Dean falls silent, concentrating on the road ahead.

  


Sam comes round, at the motel, when Dean stops the car, citing tiredness. He decides that he has to say something when Dean just walks past him, straight into the bathroom and shuts the door, leaving Sam standing there stupidly clutching his bag and wishing he knew how to start this conversation.

Dean doesn’t come out for ages, and Sam takes the time to wander to the small shop and buy a couple of donuts, and a cup of steaming hot coffee for Dean. It’s a peace offering, if nothing else. When Dean appears, he takes in the donuts on the table, but he doesn’t take one, and he doesn’t take the coffee Sam holds out to him. He just lies down on the bed, on top of the covers, and closes his eyes.

Sam sits there awkwardly for a few minutes. This type of silence is the hardest silence to break. “Dean,” he says eventually, and then again, “Dean,” when there’s no response. Sam crosses over and sits on the end of Dean’s bed. “Please, Dean,” he says.

“M’sleeping” mumbles Dean, and Sam twists the edge of the comforter in his fingers.

“We need to talk, Dean.”

“Tried that earlier, you weren’t interested. Moment’s gone, Sam. Just -- forget it and move on.” He doesn’t open his eyes, and Sam stares carefully at the wall instead.

“I -- it’s difficult, Dean.” 

“Know that, Sam, that’s why we’ll just forget it, yeah. The whole thing never happened. We never went to the dammed Poconos.”

“I want to tell you --” begins Sam, but he goes quiet, and twists the comforter tighter around his hand. Dean opens his eyes and blinks wearily at Sam. “What?” he asks.

“He-- Lucifer -- I still see him, Dean. Lots. More often, more than you know.” Dean’s alert now, and props himself up on his elbow, just looking at Sam, blinking. “He’s here right now, and he doesn’t really ever shut up, and he wants me to talk to him, but I don’t--not usually, but I had to, Dean, and now he won’t go away. The scar -- you...it worked, for a while, but it was healing, Dean, and I had to--” Sam stops, and gestures vaguely at his arms. Dean’s eyes follow the movement, but he still doesn’t say anything.

“--and that stopped him for a while,” Sam continues, “but he came back, and sometimes he wears your face, Dean, and he talks in your voice. He did that a lot down -- you know. He was you for me, cos I needed you, he said, and he was right, I do.” Sam’s aware that he’s starting to babble but now he’s started he can’t stop. “And then when I was -- wherever I was, and you were there, it wasn’t him and it wasn’t you, but it felt _right_ , but then he was there and I had to talk to him, and now he really won’t go away. He can give me what I need, Dean, he can give that to me, he has given that to me, and Dean, I, I can’t -- I need --”

“Hey,” says Dean, the first sound he’s made since Sam started, and he puts his hand slowly onto Sam’s hand, which is twisted white and red around the comforter. It’s the first time he’s touched Sam since that kiss - Sam’s not counting Dean having to support him out of the barn - but Sam doesn’t flinch or move away, just stares down at Dean’s hand.

“Are you real?” he breathes, and Dean nods. “It’s me, Sammy,” he says, “I promise.”

“How can I -- you could be him.”

“You need to be sure, Sam,” Dean says, calmly, like he doesn’t want to spook Sam, and Sam moves closer, inches nearer to his brother’s side, and inhales in a deep breath. Sam shakes his head.

“No, I can’t tell,” he says, and he turns away again.

“Hey.” Dean stops him. “Come closer. You need to be sure.” Sam hesitates, but he shifts closer to Dean on the bed, until their knees are brushing and he could reach out and envelop his brother, know that he was his. He doesn’t, though, just breathes in again, deep and strong. 

It’s there - that unmistakeable scent of Dean: leather and oil and ethanol tang. Lucifer had never replicated it, the Dean in his dream was a mere image of what Dean should be. That, that there, is all Dean, and Sam breathes out shakily, certain and sure for the first time in days. Before he can even think, he’s wrapped his arms around Dean, pulling him in close, and he breathes in the smell of his brother, tighter and closer. “Dean,” he breathes, and Dean just nods against him, yields his own arms to Sam, and lets Sam take what he needs.

“Sam,” Dean mutters into his hair, and his hand squeezes around Sam’s arm, “what -- what I said in the car, it’s true.”

“What?” Sam looks at him, confused. He can’t remember what Dean was saying, not really, it was all a blurry haze of moment and Lucifer and confusion. 

“Like -- I can’t do this without you, Sam. You can’t -- I can’t lose you, not to anything, I won’t. You’re, fuck, you’re my brother - you’re _more_ than my brother and --”

“What do you mean, Dean?” Sam asks, and there’s a small bubble of nervousness settling in his stomach, because Dean - real Dean, his Dean, this Dean, he can’t really mean -- he can’t...

Dean draws away, and looks at Sam before he drops his gaze to the floor. Sam can’t take his eyes off Dean though, he can’t take his eyes away from the sight of his brother, almost laid low by this. He looks smaller somehow, and Sam supposes that’s some of the confidence, some of the trademark bluster gone, and it all means so much, how Dean can remove that in front of him and be everything that he was and is.

“You, Sam. I mean, fuck, it’s so fucking wrong, you’re my _brother_ , but then I, you know, and I’ve wanted to do that before, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, but you, you don’t know and--”

Sam surges forward and seals his lips over Dean’s, effectively shutting him up. It’s instantly better than their first kiss, and Sam pushes closer, drawing Dean closer to him with a spare arm. He closes his eyes as he drinks in the taste of his brother, who, having been taken by surprise at first, has caught up with the program and is slowly moving his lips against Sam’s. Dean’s lips part, and Sam flicks out his tongue, tracing their shape with it, round and across before claiming Dean’s mouth again. It’s different, different to the other Dean’s, and not just the taste, the sensation - it’s _better,_ and it feels so completely right.

_Not reaaaaalll,_ sing-songs Lucifer, in his head. _I’m just getting so much better at this._

“I can’t--I don’t--” Sam stutters, and he pulls away from Dean instantly, leaving his brother looking a mixture of supremely happy and supremely confused. 

“Sam?” Dean asks, and his face has fallen, and Sam knows what’s going through his head, how he’s fucked this up again, how Sam’s going to leave, and Dean will fall, fall into a pit of dark despair, pain and drunkenness.

“Not. Not that,” Sam hastens to reassure him. “Just. He’s here. He’s saying...”

“Ignore him,” Dean states, and Sam grimaces. 

“It’s just, well, me, I can get, I mean - wanting your brother? That’s pretty fucked up, Dean, but I’m pretty fucked up. I’ve been fucked up since the day I was born, and Lucifer and his games didn’t help, but I’ve...I know I want this, Dean, but you - you can’t, it’s not possible that you actually--”

“Hey,” Dean interrupts, “I’m not exactly the king of unfucked-up-ness here, Sam.” He leans forward, plants a soft kiss on Sam’s lips, and Sam has difficultly not falling into it and never stopping. “It’s real, and I want it, and it’s always been you, Sam. Can’t be without you, can I? I just, you’re my brother, Sammy, and I need you. I couldn’t tell you; you were totally just gonna fuck off and leave me.”

“Never again,” says Sam, and he kisses Dean again.

_Oh come on!_ Lucifer is practically shouting now. _You’re not seriously going to believe that melodramatic clap-trap are you? God, I had you pegged as one of the clever ones, Sam._

Sam, with everything he can muster, tries to follow Dean’s instructions and ignore Lucifer. It works, to an extent, but mostly because he has Dean’s lips against his, and he can feel the jut of Dean’s hip against his skin and it’s all so _real_ and Sam can tell. Lucifer, he thinks, can, at this moment, go fuck himself.

Lucifer doesn’t fade away; Sam can still see him standing there with a petulant scowl on his face, but he shuts up. Dean’s distraction technique is, so far, working very well indeed.

Sam concentrates instead on kissing Dean, on pushing him back down onto the bed giving him better access to every part of his brother. He pulls himself on top properly, one knee either side of Dean’s thighs, and he leans down to claim Dean’s mouth again. Dean moans in soft appreciation, and, as much as Sam likes to air things out, he’s pretty glad that everyone has clammed up and he can have this moment, right now. “Always thought you were gorgeous,” Sam says, kissing Dean’s lips, cheekbones, eyelids. He can feel the growing heat of Dean’s erection stirring beneath him and he grinds down onto it, grinning at Dean’s reaction. “When I was growing up, it was you I looked at, Dean, not the girls at school, not really. I mean --”

“Shut up and kiss me, bitch,” complains Dean, wriggling under Sam’s bulk. Sam stops and tilts his head, but complies, pressing their mouths together again forcefully, and licking at Dean, tasting every inch of him. There’s far too many clothes in the way: Dean’s shirt and t-shirt, his jeans, all too much, and Sam needs to feel Dean right against him; he needs to feel the warm press of his brother’s skin flush against his own. “Off,” he commands, tugging at Dean’s shirt, and Dean shucks the fabric off his shoulders, and Sam pulls upwards at Dean’s t-shirt, up and over his head.

“Could say the same,” Dean says, nodding towards Sam’s own clothes, and he’s right, Sam needs to get these off now, skin against skin is what he needs. He pulls his own shirts off rapidly, tossing them somewhere, he doesn’t even care where, and resumes his attentions on Dean, nibbling down his neck, around that spot on the nook of his neck where Sam loves to nestle his head and feel the soft thrum of Dean’s pulse, and Dean’s breath in his hair. He’s always loved to snuggle up there, until he “grew out of it,” but Sam still wanted to rest his head there, soak up his brother. That was before he really understood what he felt for Dean, before it all became clear. Sam pays close attention to the line of Dean’s collarbone, licking along the length, feeling the crick where it broke once, and it never set quite straight. Dean moans again, little breathy whimpers, and his hands find Sam’s back, stroking along it, strong and sure. “Fuck,” Dean moans, “fuck, Sammy, this shouldn’t be so hot.”

“Shh,” whispers Sam, licking a stripe along Dean’s chest, around his nipples, as Dean arches up towards him.

“Fuck, yes,” Dean hisses, and he pulls Sam towards him and kisses wherever he can reach. Sam relishes the feel of Dean’s mouth on him, and god, he wants to feel Dean’s mouth all over him, and he doesn’t ever want it to stop. Dean’s still far too clothed, and Sam can see the hardness of his cock straining against the cock of his jeans, and his feels the same: tight and ready, and he needs to see it, see it now. He’s seen Dean’s cock before, when they were kids, and then when they were teenagers too, and Dean, with the characteristic confidence of a teenager who looks good and knows it used to wander around their apartments naked after showers. He even saw it once recently, since leaving Stanford, standing proud in the shower as Dean stroked himself under the hot steam. Sam hadn’t meant to walk in and see it; he thought Dean was out with some girl from a bar still, or getting breakfast, but there it was, and Sam stood and stared until he finally managed to drag his gaze away and back out of the room silently.

He’s never seen it up close and personal and in his hands though, and he unbuttons Dean’s fly, batting Dean’s hands away as Dean tries to speed him up, but Sam’s taking his time here, and he slides the jeans over Dean’s hips, helping as Dean lifts to allow Sam to pull his jeans off entirely.

Sam drinks in the sight of Dean’s cock straining against the thin cloth of his boxers, and he slowly reaches out his hand, hesitantly, but Dean grabs it, presses it down against himself and arches up into Sam’s hand. “Want it,” he says, reminding Sam, and that’s all the words Sam needs, before he shucks off his own jeans; falling into a heap at the foot of the bed, all the while pressing his hand over Dean, rubbing and feeling the hardness beneath the clothes. God, he wants to see it, he wants to have his hand against the skin, but he wants Dean to wait, he wants Dean to beg for it. 

Sam removes his hand, and advances back up Dean’s body, dropping kisses, small bites as he goes, and Dean moans at the loss of contact. Sam kisses him, pulls him in closer, and slips one finger tip into the elastic of his own boxers, pulling them down over his own erection, hissing at the sensation. Dean strains to see the view, and his hands reach out to touch Sam, but Sam bats them away, pins them down next to Dean’s head. “Wait,” he says, and he leans back, giving Dean the full vista. He’s guessing Dean’s impressed from the way his eyes rake up and down Sam’s body and then settle on his cock. Dean’s even licking his lips, Sam reckons unconsciously, and he chuckles, almost nervously. Fuck, he’s naked on top of his brother, fuck. “God, Sammy,” breathes Dean, “when did you grow up?”

Sam laughs again, and rubs along Dean’s stomach. “When you weren’t looking.”

“I was always looking,” says Dean, closing his eyes as Sam circles his cock, rubbing his own penis against Dean’s boxer covered one. “I was just too good at hiding it.”

Sam’s still holding Dean’s hands, but he releases them. “Sit up a bit,” he says, and Dean hardly hesitates before following the instruction. Sam relishes it, ordering his brother around like this. They might be on a more or less equal footing these days, but back when Sam was young and stubborn he dreamed of being able to order Dean around like Dean ordered him, and like Dad did. There was no one for Sam to order around.

Dean’s sat up more now, and Sam’s still on his knees, straddling Dean. He places one hand back over Dean’s cock, palming it softly, not letting Dean get the pressure he obviously craves. The other hand he places on the back of Dean’s head. “Do you want it? he asks.

Dean looks at him, looks down at his cock, and nods. “Think you can take it all? Think you can take it all in your mouth?” Sam asks. Dean exhales, a long drawn out breath. “Fuck, Sam, gonna kill me, fuck, yes.”

Sam nods. Dean was made for this, his fucking perfect lips just begging to be wrapped around Sam’s cock. Sam had dreamed of this when he was younger, vivid dreams at night and he would wake up with the bed warm and sticky, and have to hide it, red and embarrassed. Dean always knew, slapped him on the back - “my little bro’s becoming a man!” but he never knew what got Sam off, what Sam dreamed of at night. Sam relishes this, places the tip of his cock to Dean’s lips, lets Dean take the initiative for a moment. Dean hesitates, before his tongue darts out and flicks around the head of Sam’s cock. Sam hisses his approval, “fuck, yeah, Dean, you know what I want.” 

Dean does. Once the initial hesitation is removed, Dean sucks the tip of Sam’s cock in more confidently, swirling his tongue in thick circles around the head. He brings one hand up to the base of Sam’s dick, uses the other to support himself, and he lowers himself further down onto Sam. Sam moans as Dean makes his way down his length, it feels so good; the wet hotness of Dean’s mouth, the suction, and way his tongue is moving and flicking against all the right places, and it’s better than Sam ever imagined it. He’s never done this before, not even with the other Deans - with them, with Lucifer, it was always Sam on the receiving end of Dean, taking that thick length into his mouth and sucking down his brother with gusto, but this, this is amazing, and Sam thinks he could let Dean suck his cock forever. Dean’s increasing in confidence and style now, his hand moving with his mouth, twisting as Dean bobs up and down, and Sam looks down at him. Dean looks up, from under those fucking long eyelashes of his and Sam almost loses it right there because he looks so sinful, so fucking perfect with his lips a gorgeous O around Sam, bright red from all the attention. Sam can’t hold back much longer, and he thrusts forward into Dean’s mouth. Dean splutters for a moment in surprise, but fuck, he’s taking Sam even further in and Sam didn’t know anything could feel this good, this amazing. He uses the hand he has on the back of Dean’s head to move his brother up and down his cock. “Fuck, yes,” he moans, one finger caressing Dean’s hair even as he pushes Dean back down. “You have no idea how fucking good you feel, Dean.” 

Sam pulls out then, before he can go too far. He wants to fuck his brother, he wants to feel himself inside Dean, tight and hot, he wants to feel Dean all around him, his Dean, forever. “You want it?” he asks, running his finger around the edge of Dean’s hole. “D’you want me inside of you?”

Dean’s eyes glaze over and he breathes in sharply. “Fuck, yes, Sam, fuck me,” he says, and he spreads his legs, inviting Sam in. Sam grabs a packet of lube, thank heavens for Dean and his promiscuity, something Sam didn’t think he’d ever be thankful for, but right now it means a plentiful supply of lube and condoms. He slicks his fingers up with the liquid, before he runs them around Dean’s hole. It must be cold against him, because Dean gasps, but if anything he spreads his legs further, opens himself up more for Sam. Sam slips one finger inside of Dean, and fuck, it’s tight, Sam can’t imagine how he’s going to fit inside, but it’s going to feel so fucking good. He pushes his finger in and out again, loosening Dean up, trying to crook his finger up to that spot inside, that spot he knows will make Dean writhe and scream underneath him. God, he wants to make Dean scream, scream for his cock. He wants his brother to beg him to get inside of him. He wants Dean to want this just as much as he does. “D’you want more?” he asks, fingering Dean slowly.

“Fuck, yes,” Dean gasps, and he’s grabbing at Sam, trying to pull him closer. He manages a kiss to Sam’s shoulder, to Sam’s collarbone, and Sam could just let Dean do that forever, but Dean wants more, and so does he. He pushes a second finger in alongside the first, and crooks them up together, and this time he gets it, because Dean bucks beneath him, and gasps out. “Oh, fuck, there, again, touch me there again, Sammy.” Sam obliges, just so he can hear the sound of Dean’s voice begging him to touch him, begging him for more. His brother, spread out wanton and needy below him. It’s more than Sam ever imagined he could have, and yet it’s everything he ever wanted. 

Sam eases a third finger inside of Dean, and Dean’s fucking keening now, writhing and wanting more, it’s not enough for him. “Now, Sam,” he pleads, “fuck me, God, Sam, want your cock inside of me, I can take it.” He’s talkative when he wants something, Sam notes, and he draws it out a bit longer, fucking his fingers in and out of Dean’s hole until Dean is practically screaming for his cock. 

Sam can’t wait any longer either. Dean is deliciously tight around his fingers, and he wants to feel that encasing heat around his cock. He wants to feel Dean shiver and writhe against him, and he wants Dean to come, come as Sam pounds at his prostrate and draws his orgasm out of him. He puts the condom on as quickly as he can. “Okay?” he asks, positioning himself, readying himself. 

“Fuck, yes, Sam,” Dean bites out impatiently. “Yes, I’m fucking okay with it. I want you to fucking fuck me.”

“Got it,” Sam says, and he buries himself inside his brother in one smooth motion. Dean hisses at the intrusion, but he takes it all, and Sam stills, letting them both get used to the sensation. 

_Oh, get on with it,_ says Lucifer. _Get it over with_ , but Sam doesn’t hear him, not really, not with Dean all around him so tight and hot and perfect and his.

“Fucking move,” grunts Dean, and that spurs Sam into action, and he pulls out and then pushes in again, angling himself to hit Dean’s prostrate. Fuck, but Dean feels amazing around him, and Dean feels amazing against him, his hands around Sam’s shoulders, urging him forward. Sam leans in, and claims Dean’s lips in a kiss. “Mine,” he says, “you’re real, and you’re mine.”

“Always, Sammy,” Dean gasps in agreement. “Always was. Always will be.” 

Sam’s getting close now, he can tell, the sensations surrounding him, building within him. “Touch yourself,” he says, and Dean blinks for a moment, before one of his hands drops from Sam’s shoulder and wraps around his own cock, pulling up and around. Sam surges forward against Dean’s prostate again, and Dean moans.

“Gonna fucking – gonna come, Sammy,” he says, and his eyes are closed now, his body tensing as he reaches his climax. Sam fucks in once, twice more, and that’s it, Dean’s gone, come shooting from his cock in long thick strands, coating his hand and stomach. He clenches tighter around Sam’s cock, and that’s all Sam can stand, he’s been so fucking close, and he comes with a moan, riding out his orgasm as Dean’s body drags it out of him, before he collapses on top of Dean.

“Fuck me,” breathes Dean, into Sam’s neck, and he kisses it softly.

“Jus’ did,” Sam mumbles, pulling out of Dean carefully and rolling off onto his back. He breathes in deeply, taking it all in.

“Yep,” says Dean, and he leans over and kisses Sam’s lips. “That was real,” he says. “The whole thing. And, you know. How I feel. It’s real. It won’t change, no matter what he says.”

“I know,” says Sam, and his eyes are already closing.

  


Dean wakes up intertwined around his octopus-limbed brother, and Sam snuffles softly into the nape of his neck. Dean smoothes down Sam’s hair. He knows that things aren’t going to be simple; Sam’s mind’s still gone to fuck, but he thinks, together, they might just be able to get through this all in one piece. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for Striving for the Light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/458244) by [jennybliss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennybliss/pseuds/jennybliss)




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